Chapter 2

I never liked milk since I was little.

Because I’m lactose intolerant, every time I drank milk, I’d throw up and have diarrhea.

The doctor said you don’t necessarily need milk to get calcium.

But Mom believed milk was the most natural and purest high-calcium food, and that kids absolutely had to drink it.

She didn’t have much money to buy branded milk from the supermarket, so she worked for a dairy delivery service in our apartment complex, waking up at four every morning to deliver milk to nearly two hundred households.

By the time she finished at seven in the morning, she’d bring a few leftover bottles from the station for me to drink.

Every time I saw Mom’s face, drenched in sweat after working for half the day, I’d feel a pang of pity.

“Mom, our teacher said mustard greens and spinach also have calcium. I’ll just eat more at school. Can you please stop delivering milk?”

Mom smiled and waved her hand. “Mom’s not tired. Hurry up and drink it, then Mom will take you to school.”

Under Mom’s expectant gaze, I could only endure the discomfort and drink an entire bottle of milk.

The way to school included a muddy, bumpy dirt path. I sat on the back of Mom’s scooter, my stomach acid surging up my throat several times, which I forcefully swallowed back down.

But as soon as we reached the school gate, while greeting the teacher on duty, I couldn’t hold it in anymore and threw up in front of everyone.

There were a few classmates and their parents around.

Feeling embarrassed and mortified, I burst into tears. “Mom, I don’t want to drink milk anymore! Every time I drink it, I want to throw up!”

Mom’s eyes instantly reddened, and she declared loudly.

“You’re the shortest boy in your class! I wake up early and go to bed late, only sleeping four hours a night. Isn’t it all to save money to help you grow? Otherwise, why would I work so hard delivering milk?”

“If it weren’t for you, Mom wouldn’t have gotten divorced. I wouldn’t be working this hard!”

She cried to everyone around her, recounting the difficulties of raising a child alone after her divorce. Because Mom came to school every day to bring me lunch and pick me up, many parents and teachers knew her. Everyone’s gaze towards me changed subtly.

Finally, Mom swayed, looking like she might faint at any moment.

The teacher immediately rushed over to support her.

The teacher frowned at me.

“Alex, your mom loves you, that’s why she sacrifices so much for you and wants you to grow up strong. You need to understand how hard it is for her. If you act like this with your mom, I’ll have to give you a serious warning. Now, come apologize to your mom.”

I was somewhat dazed, not understanding why feeling sick from drinking milk meant I wasn't being understanding towards Mom.

But out of respect for the teacher and guilt towards my mom, I still timidly apologized.

Mom wiped away the moisture from the corners of her eyes while stroking my head.

I heard my classmates whispering nearby.

“Alex made his mom get divorced! So mean. I definitely don’t want my parents to divorce.”

“I love drinking milk! My mom won’t even buy it for me. I wish Alex’s mom was my mom.”

“My mom said if you don’t listen to your parents, you’re an ungrateful brat.”

“Alex is an ungrateful brat!”

In elementary school, the concepts of bullying and emotional blackmail weren’t yet defined.

I only knew that from that day on, classmates seemed to slowly stop playing with me. They’d whisper behind my back that I was an ungrateful brat, heartless, and even said I had bad breath.

Actually, that was the smell of stomach acid coming up, and fermented milk.

The teachers also always looked at me meaningfully when teaching lessons about family.

“Only your mother in this world would never harm you.”

“Mothers are the greatest people in the world. Children, you must always listen to your mothers, only bad children don’t listen to their mothers.”

“Mothers are the greatest people in the world.” I held that thought in my heart and wrote it into my essay.

Later, the essay won an award, and I once again became the "good child" the teachers talked about.

The teacher specifically printed out my essay and posted it on the classroom wall, for classmates to study and learn from.

The teacher asked me, “Alex, tell us, what kind of person is your mother to you?”

I thought for a moment.

“Mom is… the hardest working person in the world, and the person who loves me most in the world.”

I gave the rote answer, and the teacher was very satisfied. She nodded, smiling as she looked behind me.

I abruptly turned to look out the window. My mom, in her work uniform, was peering in through the window.