Gu Mingye's Mother

Gu Mingye's mother raised him alone. A night-shift nurse, she often worked several night shifts a week. She was tired, yet she gave her son space—not controlling, not fragile.

When her son didn't reply to messages late at night, she would fire off message after message, would take leave and drive out to find him; but when her son's expression was off, she didn't press him, only said: Mom won't force you to talk, but if one day you can, then tell Mom.

That day she came home early and asked her son on the sofa: can I ask now? Her son spoke in vague words of the last train, of that place that shouldn't exist. She wasn't surprised, only asked: was there a green oil lamp at that place?

Then she said the words that had been weighing on her heart all along: grandma used to say similar things to me too. What you saw is real—Mom won't treat you as if your mind has gone wrong.

She took leave to come home, and sat shoulder to shoulder with her son on the sofa for a whole morning, listening to him tell that night through from start to finish, without interrupting. With her own hands she opened her son's notebook and touched that talisman.

Then she passed on what grandma had said in her lifetime: if one day your child begins to ask about these things, don't try to explain—you can't explain it, you only need to tell him that he's not facing this alone. Before heading out for her night shift, she deliberately turned on the tap to wash a cup, letting her son hear that 'everything's fine right now,' ordinary sound of running water.

She works several night shifts a week. She is usually home by seven or eight in the morning, sleeps through to the afternoon, and goes out again in the evening.

The schedule sets mother and son out of phase. He is at school while she sleeps; she is at work when he comes home. The hours in which they can actually sit and talk come to a few a week.

She is tired. Tired enough that sometimes a sentence stops halfway before she picks it up again.

She has never missed the things she should attend. She takes leave for his parents' evenings, and has not skipped one.

If he does not answer a message late at night she will send more, take leave, and drive out to find him. On that she is tight.

But when something is wrong in his face she does not press. Her line is: I won't make you tell me. Then she goes and does something else, rather than waiting beside him.

This is not indifference. People who work in nursing have seen too many pushed further in by questioning, and she knows some things have to be brought out by the person holding them.

What she can do is leave the door open—one lamp on, a meal kept, and one question held in reserve: can I ask now? She waited a long time before she asked it.