My mother quickly patted me on the back. One of the people in the room handed me a glass of water, and I cast a grateful look. However, it seems that the water has not eased the tension in the air.

The one sitting alone on the sofa, put down his left leg, leaned forward, and said to his mother in the smoke-filled room, "Did you bring something?" The voice was ethereal through the veil, as if it came from the corner of the wall, and it seemed to hover down from the distant sky, and I only felt an inexplicable emotion surging in my back.

When my mother heard this, she hurriedly took off the hand that was placed on me, and in a panic she clenched the cloth bag tightly. The gentleman got up from the couch, passed by, looked at me, and reached out to take the bag from my mother's hand.

He put the cigarette in his mouth and untied the rope from his pocket with both hands. I didn't know what was in there, but when I opened it and took it out, I realized that it was my mother's household register. I don't know if the household registration book was as dilapidated as it was originally in that era, or because my mother was reluctant to rub traces of nostalgia on it. I just remember vividly that when the man tried to take the little book from his mother's hand, his mother grabbed the knuckles on the edge of the book, and it was noticeably white from the force.

The man's brow furrowed twice. The moment I took the household registration book, my mother leaned against my body and shook it. I subconsciously looked at my mother, and in the mist, it seemed that the layer of smoke shrouded in this woman's head was more like the winter wind that had fallen over the years, and all of a sudden, my mother became a lonely member of the world.

As an adult, I have guessed countless times about my mother's state of mind. Perhaps, she is the one who is as strong as a meteorite, because the only thin few pages that can make her feel the warmth of the world like cooking smoke, the moment she is taken from her hand, she is only a loveless shell. So much so that later, I couldn't bear to experience the complex and simple feelings in it, and I knew that no matter what I did, the years could not be looked back, and my mother had been sad for many years.

The cigarette in the man's mouth was shortened again. The air inside the house was even more muddy, and I didn't stop coughing. The man opened the notebook, took a brief look at it, and asked the man who had just brought us to take my mother and me back. At the moment when her mother was about to turn around and go out, she suddenly turned her head and asked, "Where is Cao Mu?" The man's eyes raised slightly, and he said lightly: "I've gone to Shanghai." My mother's eyes darkened a lot, she thanked the person who spoke, and led me in the direction of home.

The way back seems to be longer than a lifetime. The mother did not have the vigorous and rapid pace of the mother, but was depressed, depressed, and speechless. It was on that day that I learned my biological father's name, Cao Mu. I didn't know what was going on between my mother and me, or what kind of deal I was doing when I went to school. But that day, I read two words in my mother's eyes – expectation, disappointment.

Back at home deep in the alley, my mother was behind me, stepping on heavy steps and slowly going upstairs. I looked back at her several times, but I couldn't see her eyes. I don't know if there were tears in my mother's eyes at that time, or if they had been secretly dried by me inadvertently. When she entered the house, the mother put down the cloth bag, which was limp and spread out on the chair next to the door because it was empty. My mother scooped out a little of the already hardened white sugar jar and made some sugar water for me. Then, he sat alone in the chair, looking at the limp bag, in a daze for a long time.

I don't know exactly how long my mother sat and what she was thinking about. When I woke up, my mother was still sitting there, but it seemed to be a little dark.

There was a knock from a neighbor outside the door, and it was my mother's card friend who beckoned her to play cards. The mother refused. The group mumbled and whispered down the stairs. The mother on that day was like losing her soul, in fact, what was in the cloth bag was the mother's youth and life. However, it has been defeated by the world's opinion.

Two days later, while I was playing with the neighbor's children, my mother went out alone. Told me that night that I had money to go to school. I was ecstatic, and ran round and round the house, until the dim yellow light bulb on the roof of the shed shook the shadows, and ran so that everything around me was whistling in the wind, until I could not see my mother sitting in the room. Yes, I fainted, fainted in my mother's mediocre hopes.

Before this happened, my mother had no money, but she liked to dress up. Mother was particularly fond of using balm, especially the scent of magnolia flowers. In my childhood memory, the fragrance of magnolia flowers abruptly stopped on the street of Meiyuan in 1990.

I thought life would be so easy. When I stood in the class under the name of Cao Muxi, I even thought it was very good. Because it has given me everything equal to my peers, even if it is not the best, but I am content.

Gradually, my mother seemed to get used to all this. When I went to school, everything slowly returned to its original state. Mother began to apply balm again, but it was no longer magnolia. My mother would play cards with others during the day, and occasionally go to her own theater to sing a few songs to earn some money. However, after all, as people get older, the improvement of people's living standards is naturally also a hard antecedent of spiritual and cultural needs and requirements. The younger generation of opera personnel are stubble after stubble, and my mother has a voice that is not as good as before because of long-term smoking, so it is becoming more and more difficult to earn this money.

I went to school, but the lack of basic education at home before the age of 6 made it more and more difficult to study. By the second grade, my grades were getting worse and worse.

Her mother is an uneducated woman who can sing, and she has learned it since she was a child, and other than that, she seems to only play cards, and play cards. My mother couldn't help me with any of my homework, not even the most basic tutors.

In the second semester of the second grade of primary school, there was a parent-teacher meeting and parents signing and marking the papers. My mother struggled to write her name. I remember the first time she signed my autograph, she was sweating. Later, I wrote a few strokes awkwardly, so much so that the teacher said that I had secretly written it myself.

Parent-teacher conferences, mothers go to attend. She was ridiculed by her classmates, and she was ridiculed by her classmates, and even the teacher said that she couldn't communicate with her mother, because she was like she couldn't understand, and it was very difficult to communicate. My pride instantly took over my sanity. I started to scratch my head in the evening and peek at my mother.

In 1992, that year, I saw the woman who was caressed by time in the afterglow of a peek.