Chapter 8 — Just Because I'm the Older Sister

Vivian loves crab roe steamed buns above all else. The recipe must be remembered; as soon as Vivian returns, I shall make them for her. On the twenty-sixth, it rained in Washington, so I must remind Vivian to take an umbrella. July thirteenth is Vivian’s birthday, I must remember to order a birthday cake for her. The handwriting shifted between neat and distorted. Sometimes, perhaps during a relapse of her illness, she would write a single sentence in the notebook: Who is Vivian? And the line right below it would be soaked through with tears. She is your daughter. Vivian is your daughter. You must, you must not forget. A sudden, sharp pain pierced my eyes. I averted my gaze, looked at the two of them one last time, and finally spoke:

I will continue to send money for your elderly care, but I am never returning to that place again.

I am living very well here. You do not need to worry about me, nor should you ever come to disturb me.

Let it be at that!

With those words, I pressed the end-call button. Back when I was a child, I used to make cheerful phone calls to them from boarding school. They were always impatient, cutting me off after barely a few sentences with a cold "let it be at that" before hanging up. Now, I have grown up, and they have grown old. I have become strong, no longer the humble girl begging for scraps of affection. Meanwhile, they have learned remorse and begun to reflect upon themselves. Everything seemed to have turned completely upside down. Yet, within my heart, there was not a trace of joy; if anything, there was only a lingering ache. I thought of the young women who had connected to my broadcasting room—some wept, while others did not shed a tear. Some were unloved and desperately wanted to leave, yet could never muster the final resolve. Others struggled in agony, keeping their distance only to soften at their parents' plaintive, sorrowful pleas. Unhealthy relationships between parents and children always seemed to manifest this way. Severed they could never be, untangled they would never stay. In the very end, the one who always compromised was invariably the unloved child. I stepped out of the library. The maple trees were ablaze with crimson. As a gust of wind swept through, fallen leaves blanketed the earth. Sunlight streamed down, resembling a golden path leading straight into the vast sky. I drew in a deep breath and slowly exhaled, dispelling the final remnants of confusion and grievance lingering in my heart. Then, the corners of my lips curved upward, and I lifted my foot to step onto that wide, open road. A notification chimed on my phone. It was the grand prize from the Council of Fashion Designers of America—the fruit of four grueling years of relentless effort. Fortunately, I had not compromised. Fortunately, what awaited me ahead was a brilliant future, a boundless world. Let the fish leap freely in the vast ocean, let the birds soar high across the endless sky. To every single young woman in this world who has never been tenderly loved: May your path forward be infinitely radiant! The world is vast, and you too shall claim a sky of your own! The End