Warmth

Author: Helen He, Grade 12

A weary woman in a faded navy apron would sit on the pink wool couch, cradling a bowl of mi xian, nudging the first bite of handmade rice noodles towards her daughter. The steam would cloud her glasses, and every mouthful felt like a quiet promise — that no matter how small their world was, she’d always make room for her. On nights when the rain drummed loud against the windows, the woman would hum soft tunes from her own childhood, drawing little shapes along her daughter’s back until sleep gently tugged her under and dream angels came and picked her up.

When she was old enough to carry her own backpack, the mother would wait by the school gate.

“开心吗?” — had fun?

Umbrella in one hand, ziplock bag of haw flakes in the other, asking about her friends and math quizzes like they were breaking news. Every scraped knee was a tragedy, every art project a masterpiece, every bad grade a puzzle to solve together.

At first, there was warmth.

But then her hand felt the touch of a boy's, heralding the beginning of adolescence, uninvited and unapologetic. The daughter’s world began to swell with new faces, new perspectives and new desires. Sleepovers, study sessions, whispered secrets under fluorescent streetlights left less and less space for her mother’s soft questions.