by Huina Zheng
When my daughter came home from school, she didn’t call out to me like she usually did. She changed into her slippers by the door, her lips pressed into a thin line.
I opened my arms to hug her. She turned slightly and slipped past me.
“I’m fine,” she said. She didn’t look at me. Then she walked into her room and closed the door.
I stood there. That afternoon, her homeroom teacher had messaged me on WeChat. She had been class president for two years, but this time she lost the election by three votes.
Just three votes.
I knew that feeling. In seventh grade, I slipped from the top five in my class to the twenties. My mother stopped me in the living room. Her finger tapped my forehead as she told me I had become lazy, that I had disappointed her. I bit my lip. I didn’t argue. Didn’t explain. Didn’t cry.
When I got back to my room, I could taste blood. I lay on my bed and started singing. I don’t even remember which Faye Wong song it was. I only remember that, little by little, I felt myself calm down.
Now, I heard a song coming from behind my daughter’s door. It was the one she sang all the time. Her voice shook at first. But as she continued singing, it became steadier.
I stood outside her room. I did not knock. I did not ask, “Are you okay?” I hummed along with the melody coming from inside.
She didn’t know I was outside. But I knew that inside that room, she was using the same way I once had to bring herself back.
Huina Zheng either writes as an admission coach at work or writes for fun after work. She lives in Guangzhou, China, with her family.
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