Chapter 6 — Forgot Admission Notice

The living room was quiet for a long time. Mom stood up and went into my room. The room still retains the same appearance as the day I left, she has never touched it. She pulled out the desk drawer and searched through each one. Going to the bottom floor, she saw several folded papers stacked on top of each other. It's a certificate of merit. First place in tenth grade. Third place in the eleventh grade block. Second prize in the city-level Physics competition. Third good student. Every sheet had folds, as if it had been folded and opened many times. On the top block's first-class certificate of merit there is a light brown oil stain. Mom looked at that oil stain for a long time and suddenly remembered. That year, Ran Ran brought home a certificate of merit and placed it on the dining table. The next morning, she made braised ribs and conveniently placed a plate on top. When Ran Ran returned and saw it, she didn't say anything, just wiped the certificate and put it away. From then on, she never took out any certificates of merit to show them again. Mom held a few certificates of merit in her hand, the edges of the paper had turned yellow. She remembered what Ms. Liu said: "This child usually doesn't talk much, but his achievements are always very stable." Don't talk much. Very stable performance. These two assessments combined are the label she put on this child in the house: peace of mind. What does peace of mind mean? There is no need to manage. Is there will be no error. It's okay to give all your attention and energy to another child, because this child won't have a problem. But no problem, doesn't mean it doesn't need to be seen. Mom rearranged the certificates and put them back in the drawer. When she left the room, her sister stood in the hallway, holding a textbook, her expression a bit complicated. “Mom, do you hate us?” Mom looked at her sister and shook her head. "It doesn't hate. If it hated it, it wouldn't have gone so quietly." No regrets. What is scarier than hatred? It's giving up. As a child, he completely abandoned expectations towards his family. That night, my mother couldn't sleep. She lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling, as if a movie was playing in her head, frame by frame rewinding the images of the past eighteen years. At Ran Ran's first grade elementary school parent meeting, she didn't go because Duong Duong had a fever that day and had to go to the hospital. She didn't go to Ran Ran's middle school graduation ceremony because she was helping Duong Duong register for the summer Math Olympiad class. During Ran Ran's three years of high school, how many times did she go to school? Once? Twice? Or maybe not even once? She doesn't remember. She couldn't even remember what Ran Ran's high school homeroom teacher looked like. Before making that phone call, she had to look up the old phonebook to find out what kind of homeroom she was in. As for each of Duong Duong's teachers, she is familiar with them. At every parent meeting, she sits in the front row. Every time the exam results come out, she is the first to know. Two daughters. A person is cradled in the palm of his hand and grows up. The remaining one grew up in the dark. Grow up, then leave. Walk without a sound, walk clean and neat. Not even a goodbye. September 9. University opened a month ago. Every three days my mother calls the school's academic counselor to ask how I am doing. The counselor's answer was always the same: "Classmate To Ran, everything is normal, goes to class on time, and his grades are very good." Normal. Go to school on time. Very good achievement. Eight words, was the only information she could get about me. She once tried writing letters. Sent it to the school's mail room, wrote three pages, and was said to cry while writing. The letter was returned. The person in the mail room said that classmate To Ran refused to accept. She tried asking relatives for advice. Third aunt called my new number, I answered the phone. "Ran Ran, your mother is ten pounds thinner these days, washing her face with tears every day. Anyway, call back, she knows it's wrong." "Third aunt, the envelope of two thousand yuan you gave me at the high school graduation celebration party, I never received it. Mom wrote it down under Duong Duong's name." The other end of the line was silent. “I'm not for money.” I said. “I just want to tell you, this doesn't happen in a day or two.” Third aunt sighed: "So what do you plan to do? Will you never go home again for the rest of your life?" “I don't know.” I'm telling the truth. I really don't know. I'm dry

hate them. Hatred is an emotion that needs to be paid attention to. I'm just tired. So tired that I don't want to explain anymore, don't want to fight anymore, don't want to stand in the corner where the spotlight will never shine, waiting to be discovered anymore. October, National Day holiday. The family group no longer exists, but the mother asked the counselor to pass on the message: "Will you come home on National Day? I will make your favorite food." The advisor said this sentence verbatim to me. I asked the counselor: “Did she say what food I like to eat?” The advisor was stunned for a moment: "She didn't say specifically." That's right. She doesn't know what I like to eat. She knew that Duong Duong liked to eat sweet and sour fried ribs, braised shrimp in oil, and fried cinnamon fish with sweet and sour sauce. But she doesn't know what I like to eat. "Please answer for me, I have already made arrangements so I won't be returning." "Okay." During the seven days of National Day, I spent six days at the library, and the remaining days I went with my roommate to a museum in the city.