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墨書 Inktalez
Later, I finally grew up.
After learning about the various events of the past, I couldn't help but feel a sense of confusion deep within: how could those undoubtedly joyful moments, when spoken by her, transform into acts of self-sacrifice and altruism? It could even be said that they became tales of deep grievances and misfortune.
And fate, that mischievous trickster, always plays its jokes on us when we least expect it.
At that time, during the nationwide wave of educational reform, my uncle chose not to convert his position to a permanent one due to his unwillingness to succumb to certain unfair and unclear fees. As a result, he lost what was considered a coveted job.
This was his personal choice, a manifestation of upholding principles and boundaries. However, she, my aunt, unjustly transferred her dissatisfaction stemming from this personal choice onto our family.
From that moment on, she began to periodically "greet" us with the infamous label of “Backstabber,” always finding various absurd reasons to argue with my mother.
Those heated words accompanied by her spittle sprayed onto our faces as she accused us of being ungrateful. Our family naturally became the punching bag for all her frustrations and setbacks.
I stood aside, feeling a mix of emotions: what did all this conflict have to do with my mother?
Initially, I found her behavior both amusing and perplexing; sometimes I would even retaliate: why was she so eager to play the victim while never willing to examine her own words and actions or reflect on her right and wrong?
In my mind, grandmother and aunt were like two firecrackers tied together, wrapped around by an invisible fuse, while my mother would always be provoked by their words and actions when they least expected it, igniting the fuse without mercy.
Thus, the "firecracker sounds" in our home would rise and fall like the firecrackers used in old villages to scare away the New Year beast, crackling incessantly. Each "explosion" struck heavily against the already fragile shell of our family, deepening and widening the existing cracks.
And my father—the hero who seemed capable of anything in my childhood memories—now merely stood silently there, tightly holding onto the familial ties he couldn't sever. His face revealed an indescribable expression: whether it was helplessness or indifference, I could no longer discern.
I turned my head and looked at my mother.
She, with her not-so-broad shoulders, silently bore all the grievances and pain. After each argument, she would quietly wipe away the tears from the corners of her eyes and steadfastly continue to play the role of a daughter-in-law as always.
She would softly say to me, "You are still young; you don't understand."
Yes, at that time, I truly did not understand. I did not comprehend why there had to be such disputes and conflicts within the family, nor did I grasp why there couldn't be more understanding and tolerance among relatives.
As I grew older and began to observe the complexities of the world and the myriad facets of human nature with a more mature perspective, I found that many issues still troubled me.
In the dead of night, I kept questioning myself: What do I still not understand? What is it that I truly need to comprehend?
This question felt like a vast maze, with no matter how I turned, I could not find an exit, leaving me increasingly agitated.
I began to examine my life, reflecting on those things I once took for granted: Was the compromise and sacrifice made to maintain an outward appearance of "perfection" really worth it? Was it worthwhile to strive to keep a seemingly complete family for the sake of my children?
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