Rebirth: My Mother, My Hero

“What is the greatest regret of your life?” Just before bed, Mia Lin opened Zhihu, a popular Chinese online platform, and saw this question awaiting her answer. She froze, her drowsiness evaporating in an instant, as a flood of memories swept over her, compelling her to reflect on her life. Too many regrets surfaced. Regrets for not ending a relationship sooner, for resigning too late to chase a career in content creation, for the countless sleepless nights that ruined her health, and even for not visiting Changsha before her body could no longer handle spicy food… Big regrets, small regrets—enough to fill a basket. But her greatest regret— Mia Lin tossed and turned before finally typing her response: "My biggest regret was in seventh grade. My mother asked me, ‘If I divorce your father, who will you stay with?’ And I answered, ‘I don’t want Mom and Dad to divorce.’" At the time, she never imagined that one day she would grow up to repeatedly urge her mother to leave him. But by then, the cost her mother had sunk into the marriage was too great, and she couldn’t bring herself to make the decision. Only then did Mia realize—her mother’s strongest desire to leave had been back then. That year, her father had cheated, and in a storm of anger and humiliation, struck her mother in public. Everyone around them opposed the divorce—her grandmother, grandfather, aunts, uncles, even her maternal grandparents, who had once objected to her mother marrying her father. They all took turns pressuring her. Mia, her mother’s last hope, had stood against her as well. Later, Mia often thought back to that day—how her mother locked herself in her room for an entire day and night. Her father had stormed out, and the relatives who came to console them had all gone. The house was steeped in silence. When her mother finally emerged, her eyes were swollen to slits, but her face was composed in a chilling calm. She no longer pursued her husband’s infidelity, nor exploded in anger, nor neglected the family business. Overnight, she returned to her former self. But the night that haunted Mia wasn't the night her father’s affair was exposed—it was the night she said, “I don’t want my parents to divorce.” As a child, she didn’t understand. She thought the storm had passed. Only later did she realize that what her mother had felt that night was not just heartbreak—it was utter devastation. Time had dulled the sharpness of that pain, and her mother seemed to have forgotten it. But the slap on the street and the look in her mother’s eyes were etched deeply into Mia's memory. For years, whenever her mother complained about her father, Mia would think: If only I had stood by her back then, insisting she leave. Before falling asleep, Mia wished for a remedy for regret. If she could go back, she would do everything to make sure her mother left him. She would even accept never being born, if it meant her mother would never meet him. When Mia opened her eyes again, she was lying across a school desk. A red imprint on her arm was damp with tears—she had been crying. Still groggy, she sat up and noticed a test paper on the desk. On the left margin, along the sealed edge, was scrawled in a childlike hand: “Grade 4, Class 3,” “Mia Lin,” “No. 51.” And at the top right corner, in bright red ink: “66.” It took Mia a moment to remember—“No. 51” was her student number. In her original class, there were exactly 50 students. As a transfer student, she was the “51st”—the one who lagged behind. And if she recalled correctly, 66 was the lowest score in the midterms. But that was over 20 years ago—how could she be here again? Was she dreaming? “Mia Lin!” A voice called to her from outside the classroom, “I’m done cleaning! Let’s go!” Mia turned her head and saw a little girl with twin ponytails, bright eyes, and a cheerful expression. The girl looked both unfamiliar and familiar—her name lingered on the tip of Mia’s tongue, but she just couldn’t place it. “Hurry up, or Nicholas Tse’s album will be sold out!” The girl rushed in, gathered Mia's test paper and books from the desk, and stuffed them into her bag. She slung the bag over Mia’s shoulder, the weight nearly knocking her over. Mia followed her out, and as they passed a hallway mirror, she realized she had shrunk. Short arms, short legs—not even as tall as the girl beside her—she was unmistakably a child. As the sun set, the school was nearly deserted. The moment they reached the gate, a burst of sounds hit her. Car horns, crackling speakers, bicycle bells, and the sizzling of sugar-coated fruit frying in oil—everything came rushing at Mia. She saw a banner at the entrance of a record store: “Faye Wong’s latest album ‘Fable’ is now in stock!” The details—it was all too vivid to be a dream. Wide-eyed, Mia pinched herself—it hurt. Before she could think further, the little girl dragged her into the record store. As the door swung open, Coco Lee’s lively voice filled the air: “Seeing you brings me joy No need to warm up, I’m already happy~” Mia paused, looking at the shelves labeled “New Pop Releases,” where fresh CDs were stacked: *Jay*, *Stefanie Sun*, *Love Is Forever*. She picked up *Stefanie Sun*, and memories surged. The first time Mia heard “Cloudy Day,” she was stunned. In 2000, having just moved to Chengdu after leaving her beloved grandmother, Mia was adrift in a city that felt alien. She wasn’t close to her parents, had no connection with her classmates, and her grades had plummeted. She was a young girl lost in her sadness. The first line of “Cloudy Day” spoke of her grandmother, and the melancholy in the song spoke directly to Mia's heart.