My mom was a liar. She said my dad hit her. But every time she pulled up her sleeves, her skin was clear, without a single mark. She’d cry and say, “He hit me again last night.” My dad would just stand by, sighing, “She’s having another episode.” Arthur, my dad, was a high school principal, gentle and refined. Everyone praised him as a good husband and father. And my mom? The neighbors said she was sick, Grandma Rose said it was postpartum depression, and doctors diagnosed paranoid delusion. I believed them too. Until that late night, when I came home early and caught my dad raising his fist. My mom saw me through the crack in the door. In that instant, her eyes lit up. It was then I understood she wasn’t waiting for me to save her. She was waiting for me to see it for myself. For as long as I could remember, Eleanor, my mom, told me Arthur, my dad, hit her. But she never had any proof. Every time she’d pull up her sleeves to show me, her skin was perfectly clear, not even a red mark. Every time she’d cry, “He hit me again last night,” my dad would stand next to her, sighing, a helpless look on his face: “She’s having another episode.” My dad was a high school principal, gentle and refined. All the teachers and students admired him. He attended my parent-teacher conferences, cooked for me, and when I had a fever, he’d stay by my bedside all night. He was the best dad in the world; I’d always thought that since I was little. And my mom? She’d suddenly throw things, suddenly scream, suddenly hug me and cry, saying, “If Mom dies, you have to live well.” The neighbors said she had a mental illness. Grandma Rose said it was postpartum depression; she’d been like this since I was born – suspicious, paranoid, and now it was worse. I took her to see a psychologist three times. Each diagnosis was the same: moderate depression with paranoid delusion. Even with the diagnosis, it wasn’t like I’d never had doubts. Once, when I was little, I saw some red marks on my mom’s arm and asked her how she got them. Before she could answer, my dad spoke up: “Your mom had a nightmare last night and pinched herself.” My mom opened her mouth, but didn’t contradict him. I thought it was strange at the time, but I didn’t think much of it. Later, I just got used to it. Used to her crying, used to her making a fuss, used to her suddenly putting down her forks at the dinner table and saying, “He hit me again.” Then my dad would sigh and put some food on my plate: “Eat. Don’t mind her.” I started to get annoyed with her. When I was in middle school, she once ran into my room in the middle of the night, shook me awake, and said, “Maya, your dad just pinched my thigh. Go check, there must be a mark.” I was so sleepy I just rolled over: “Eleanor, can you please stop? I have school tomorrow.” She stood by my bed, motionless for a long time. I thought she’d left. As I was drifting off to sleep, I heard her whisper, “I’m not making a fuss, I really am not.” I ignored her. It was even more annoying in high school. Every time she came back from the hospital, she’d pull me aside and ramble on about, “Your dad hit me again.” I’d slam the door: “Can you stop pretending? Will you only be happy if you drive Arthur away?” She stopped talking. At the time, I thought she just didn’t want me to have a good life. I’d worked so hard to get into a good high school. My dad cooked me delicious food every day and stayed up late studying with me. And her? All she did was fuss and cry. Once, she even chased me to the school gate and, in front of my classmates, pulled me aside and said, “Your dad hit me last night.” I yanked my hand away, my voice loud: “Are you insane?” All my classmates were staring at me. My mom stood at the school gate, stunned for a long time, then turned and walked away. Her back was hunched, and she walked very slowly. I was embarrassed then. Now that I think about it, she was wearing long sleeves and long pants that day, in over ninety-degree weather.
During the winter break of my sophomore year, I went home for the holidays. The Christmas Eve dinner was lively; all the relatives were there. My dad cooked a full table of dishes himself. Relatives praised him for being capable, asking my mom where she found such a good man. My dad stood up, glass in hand, smiling. “Thank you all for taking care of our family these years. Especially, I want to thank Eleanor for putting up with my bad temper. Sometimes I speak too quickly, raise my voice a little, and she thinks I’m going to hit her.” He paused, a wry smile on his face: “She’s been through a lot because of me.” All the relatives laughed. I laughed too. Uncle Mike chimed in: “Arthur, you call that a bad temper? You’re so gentle with us.” Aunt Sarah agreed: “Exactly, Eleanor is just too sensitive.” My dad shook his head, looking remorseful: “It’s not her fault; she’s sick, you know. I just need to be more understanding.” Everyone was praising him for being generous and responsible. My mom sat in the corner, holding a pork rib with her fork, her hand trembling. The rib fell back onto the plate. She picked it up again, and it fell again. Suddenly, I felt annoyed. Everyone at the table was happy, and she was the only one with a long face. “Eleanor, can’t you just be happy? It’s the holidays.” My voice wasn’t quiet when I said that, and several relatives looked over. She looked up at me. Her lips trembled a few times, but she didn’t speak. Her eyes held an expression I couldn’t place, as if she wanted to say something, but swallowed it back. I didn’t think much of it and continued eating. That night, I was scrolling on my phone in my room when I heard a muffled thud from next door. “Thud!” like something hit the wall. I didn’t move. A little while later, another sound, softer this time. I put down my phone and pushed the door open. My mom’s room door was ajar, with light spilling out. I pushed the door open. My dad stood by the bed, rubbing my mom’s shoulder. My mom was lying face down on the pillow, her face buried, so I couldn’t see her expression. “What’s wrong?” I asked. My dad turned to look at me, his expression very natural: “Eleanor has a stiff neck. I’m just rubbing it for her.” My mom turned her face away from the pillow and glanced at me. I still remember that look. It wasn’t sadness, it wasn’t pain, it was despair. She opened her mouth, her lips moved, then closed again. I stood in the doorway for a few seconds; she didn’t speak. “Well, get some sleep.” I closed the door. As I reached the stairwell, I paused. For some reason, something felt off. But I thought about it and decided I was overthinking. My dad rubbing my mom’s shoulder – wasn’t that perfectly normal? The next morning, I got up for a drink and saw my mom in the kitchen. She was holding a bowl with her left hand, in a very awkward position. I glanced at it and saw a few red marks on the back of her left hand, a bit swollen. “What happened to your hand?” She looked down at it, her voice calm: “Arthur hit it with a book last night.” I paused for half a second, then laughed. “A book can cause red marks like that? Eleanor, at least make your lies more believable.” Just then, my dad came out of his study and heard us. He walked over, looked at my mom’s hand, and gave a wry smile. “Your mom ran into the door frame yesterday. I heard a noise from my room and ran out, only to see her squatting on the floor, rubbing her hand. She doesn’t remember things, sleeps it off and forgets, then thinks I hit her.” He said it so naturally, and my mom didn’t contradict him. She carried the bowl of porridge and slowly walked to the balcony, sitting on a small stool, her back to me. I looked at her back, and that little doubt in my heart was suppressed again. My dad patted my shoulder: “Don’t take it to heart. Eleanor’s illness is just like that.” I nodded. From that day on, I never doubted her again.
The summer of my junior year, I didn’t go home. I stayed at school to prepare for graduate school exams. The library in July was like a sauna. I spent every day in there, doing practice problems from eight in the morning until ten at night. My phone was on silent; I didn’t want to answer anyone’s calls. That afternoon, I was working on an English practice test when my phone vibrated. It was my mom. I hesitated, but picked up. “Maya, can you come home and see me? I can’t take it anymore.” Her voice was very soft, as if she was afraid of being overheard. It was also choked with tears, her voice hoarse, as if she’d been crying for a long time. At the time, I was stuck on a reading comprehension passage, getting three out of five questions wrong, and I was incredibly frustrated. “Can you stop using this tactic? I’m studying for grad school. If I don’t get in, will you be responsible?” Silence on the other end. After about ten seconds, she said one word. “Okay.” Then she hung up. I didn’t think anything of it. I flipped my phone face down on the table and continued working on the problems. That summer, my mom almost died. She slashed her wrists in the bathroom. Hot water flooded the floor, and blood flowed into the hallway. A neighbor smelled blood, knocked on the door with no answer, and called the police. When my dad called me, his tone was calm. “Maya, your mom is acting up again. You should come home.” I bought the next train ticket, and it was already past midnight when I arrived. My mom lay in the hospital bed, her left wrist wrapped in thick gauze, her face as white as paper. When she saw me, her eyes lit up. She said, “Maya, I didn’t want to die.” I stood by the bed; I didn’t sit. “I wanted to record it.” “Record what?” “Him hitting me. I wanted to record it when he hit me and upload it to my phone. That way, you’d believe me.” I was trembling with anger. “You slashed your wrists to prove Arthur hit you? Are you out of your mind?” My voice was loud; a nurse poked her head into the hallway to look. My mom didn’t argue. She closed her eyes, and tears streamed down her temples into her hair. Looking at her, my heart was a mix of anger and sorrow. My mom opened her eyes again and looked at me. “Maya, I’m really not sick. Will you believe me just this once? Just once.” I opened my mouth, wanting to say something, but nothing came out. I turned and walked out of the hospital room. In the hallway, my dad sat on a long bench, hands propped on his knees, head bowed. When he saw me come out, he stood up, his eyes red. “Maya, I’m sorry.” His voice was trembling. “I didn’t take good care of Eleanor. I made you worry. If you hate me, I accept it.” He pulled me into a hug, his shoulders shaking, crying like a child. I’d never seen Arthur cry before. My nose stung, and I hugged him back, patting his back. “Arthur, it’s not your fault.” I said it firmly. “It’s Eleanor’s illness.” My dad hugged me tighter. Holding him, I thought, after I finish grad school, I must take Eleanor to a better hospital. In New York, in Los Angeles, no matter the cost. Cure her illness. Then everyone would have peace.
That winter, I got in. The day my graduate school acceptance letter arrived at school, I called Arthur. He was so happy his voice changed, saying he’d cook a huge dinner to celebrate when I came home. I had planned to wait until the holidays to go back, but I just couldn’t wait. I wanted to surprise him. And surprise my mom too. Even though I didn’t have much to say to her, when I held the acceptance letter, I still wanted her to see it. No matter what, she was my mom. She gave birth to me, raised me. Even if she was sick, even if she annoyed me, something like getting into grad school, she’d probably want to see that, right? I didn’t tell them, and bought a ticket for a week earlier. The train was delayed for two hours, and it was already past nine at night when I arrived. Winter days get dark early. The wind at the station entrance whistled into my collar. I hunched my shoulders, hailed a taxi, and told the driver the address. My mind was racing, thinking about what I’d say when I opened the door. “I got in” was too ordinary. “Eleanor, look, this is my acceptance letter”—that sentence ran through my mind, then I swallowed it back. Forget it, I’d just say it when the time came. The car stopped at the community gate, and I dragged my suitcase inside. Some of the hallway lights were broken, flickering on and off. Climbing to the fourth floor, I rummaged in my bag for my key and inserted it into the lock. The lights inside the house were off. I thought they were all asleep. I quietly turned the key, changed my shoes, and took two steps inside. Then I heard a sound. It came from the master bedroom. It was muffled, like something hitting flesh. One hit, a few seconds’ pause, then another. Someone was talking too. It was my dad’s voice. “Are you trying to call Maya again? Are you trying to bring our daughter back again?” “Do you want to destroy this family so badly?” I didn’t turn on the lights. The hallway was dark. I fumbled my way to the master bedroom door. The door wasn’t fully closed, leaving a crack. I looked inside. My mom was kneeling on the floor. Kneeling. Her whole body was slumped, her knees against the floor, her upper body leaning against the bed, as if she couldn’t stand up. My dad stood in front of her, one hand gripping her chin, lifting her face. His other hand was clenched into a fist, suspended in mid-air. “I’ve supported you for over twenty years. Is this how you repay me?” The words “My dad hit me” exploded in my head. But I still didn’t move. When my mom’s face turned, I didn’t see any obvious injuries. There was a small cut at the corner of her mouth, tiny, like she’d accidentally bumped it. A very faint red mark on her left cheek, as if something had brushed against it. Her left hand was curled, unable to straighten, and there was bruising under her fingernails, dark purple. When my dad’s fist came down, she didn’t flinch. She didn’t even close her eyes. She just looked at him, her eyes as calm as someone not being hit. Then she saw me. Through the crack in the door, she saw me. In that instant, her eyes lit up. It was then I understood she wasn’t waiting for me to save her. She was waiting for me to see it for myself.
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