My mother fears me.
I see it in her eyes, I hear it in her tone. Whenever she talks to me about life, the quiver in her voice passes through the air and into my bones.
My mother is scared.
Not of me, but of how different we are. Of the different ways we view reality, of how she can no longer control me, and how she never had the chance to control my thoughts.
My mother is frightened by me.
Or at least, the prospects of my future. That I’m not the innocent little Chinese girl she herself grew to be. That I’ll marry a white man and leave her, stranded on this sunny island while I’m off galloping in the freezing winters.
My mother is afraid.
That I am too westernized. That in our little city the boys won’t want to hold me. That I am too big a Woman to be held under these little boys’ wings. That I cannot, Will not be domesticated.
My mother is worried, because she knows her love can’t give me pure happiness.