The year of the college entrance exam, my results were disappointing, and I deeply wished to retake it. However, with my father losing his job that year and my younger siblings being so small, it was difficult to bring up the idea of repeating a year. I had no choice but to pack my bags and head to an unsatisfactory school. Among the classmates who retook the exam, one was admitted to Peking University the following year; on the day results were released, drums and gongs echoed through the county streets. My mother quietly closed the doors and windows, fearing my sadness. At that time, I was indeed heartbroken, and my tears of resentment eclipsed all the efforts my mother had made.
Years have passed, and I have come to realize that although she may not pat our heads or speak to us with the gentleness of other mothers, it does not mean she does not love us. Behind her bluntness lies an urgent kind of love and a desperate desire for our success. I can no longer change her way of communicating or acting, nor can I change my own growing tendency to lose my temper in a blunt manner, just like her. We are both longing for each other's love, unaware that this love has already taken root, sprouted, and flourished amidst our constant clashes...