A Mother’s Death and Their Remorse

The eighth year since I was diagnosed with autism, Mom was packed into a red suitcase.

She didn't come out for a long, long time.

I didn't cry or make a fuss, because Mom had given me a mission.

She'd carved words onto my back, telling me to find an old man named Mr. Harrison, saying he was my maternal grandpa.

I asked blankly:

"What if I can't find him?"

At just that one sentence, Mom's eyes reddened. She fell silent for a moment, mumbling unconsciously.

"You're right, what if I can't find him...?"

After she spoke, even her shoulders began to tremble.