Counterfeit Money in Diary

On the third day after my mother left, I found a diary in the drawer of her bedside table. Black hard shell cover, edges worn white. Turning the first page is the day I was born. Turning to the middle, I found two counterfeit bills. She is a rural woman who has never traveled far in her life. Where did the counterfeit money come from? When I send money to her, I always transfer money via mobile phone, and I never give her cash. I looked through my diary and found no answer. She only wrote one sentence on that page: "I was thinking of letting her see it one day so that she wouldn't be deceived in the future. Then I forgot about it." She forgot about the counterfeit money, the love letter that she had hidden for me for more than ten years, and that she was still in the hospital. But she didn't forget herself. Every baby tooth I lost was wrapped in a tissue and dated. Every little red flower I get is written down in my notebook. Every time I came home and left, she would stand at the door of the kitchen, her apron still untied, wiping her hands on it, watching me get in the car. I never look back. After looking through the diary, I realized that she had written on February 17th eighteen times in the past eighteen years. Every birthday, she made dumplings. Leeks and eggs. The last article read: "Xiaonan is thirty-five years old today. I left a bowl for her. Let it cool. Then I ate it. The skin of the dumplings became very hard after they were cold." She has been waiting for me for eighteen years. Wait for her daughter to open the door, open the drawer, and open the diary. I'm back. But she is no longer here. I squatted in the yard and buried the two counterfeit bills and the box of only two colored pencils in the soil at the roots of the rose. She said, water more and keep it open longer so Xiaonan can see it when she comes back. The roses are still open. Red.