I attended my mother's wedding.

As I grew older, I began to understand the challenges of being a wife and mother from a woman's perspective, gradually forgiving her and myself. Finally, I could once again call out to my mother with the innocence and affection of a woodland creature.

One

My mother's wedding took place in the mountains of northern Sichuan, the hometown of the groom. Reluctant to spend money on extravagant wedding celebrations, all the decorations were personally arranged by my mother: a disposable red carpet as thick as paper, and a plastic flower arch costing less than 100 yuan. With makeshift canopies and the entire wedding scene adorned with cheap paper lanterns and balloons, everything seemed overly simple, even somewhat austere and comical.

But I knew, for my mother, having a wedding in the sunshine, despite the gossip about her "remarrying at this age," was a great joy. On the day of the wedding, under the brilliant sunlight, my mother held my hand, and together we walked a short stretch of red carpet.

My relationship with my mother has always been complex. My parents divorced when I was young, and I lived with my father, who influenced me to harbor contempt and distance towards my mother. For a long time, my father's words, "You'll definitely end up like your mother," felt like the harshest criticism. Yet, I always yearned and needed my mother deeply. In my childhood dreams, I often cried out for her, and each time we parted after a brief reunion, it felt like a dagger in my heart. The most tender memory of my mother was during elementary school summer vacations when I visited her city. I remember sitting with her on a newly built square, resting my head on her lap as she quietly cleaned my ears. We didn't speak, basking in the warm sunshine. Later, on the bus ride back, that scene lingered in my mind. Throughout the two-hour journey, tears streamed down my face as I clutched my backpack. I was a child who needed her mother! No one tied up my hair in pretty braids, no one accompanied me to the amusement park to ride the carousel, no one took me to pick out nice clothes, no one told me what to do when I got my first period, no one reminded me to wear a bra after my breasts developed. My mother, the warm and smiling figure in the sunlight, mostly existed only in my dreams. I resented my mother, hated that she had missed the moments I needed her most.

In my first year of work, I used my limited savings to take my mother on a trip. It was our first mother-daughter trip, and it was the first time she confided in me like a little girl, tearfully recounting the domestic violence she endured from my father. For years, I had been "Daddy's girl." Looking at the woman across from me, who carried me in her womb, I began to painfully separate "Daddy" into two images: a good father and a bad husband. I resented my mother, resented her for showing me how difficult it is to be a mother, making it impossible for me to blame her.

On the return journey by high-speed train, I read an article titled "Regretting Motherhood, But I Dare Not Say It Aloud." After reading it, I asked my mother, "Do you regret giving birth to me?" She turned from watching the sunset, almost instantly replying, "Never." But, mother, did you know? I've hoped countless times that you hadn't given birth to me, so maybe you'd have a different life. I wouldn't be the source of your pain, and you wouldn't have to be the source of mine. My mother isn't a good mother, but I can't bear to let her go.

The red carpet walk we took together as mother and daughter was so short.

Two

When I was young, I stumbled upon my mother's youth in an old lyric book, filled with clippings of the Little Tigers boy band and the 1983 version of "The Legend of the Condor Heroes." She particularly adored Huang Rong, played by Angie Chiu, and the book was full of images of the actress, her smile innocent and radiant, her spirit soaring. When introducing herself to others, she always said, "I'm Zhou Rong, like Huang Rong." In her teenage years, she was as lively as Huang Rong.

Years flew by, and Huang Rong was left to gather dust in the pages of the book, while Angie Chiu's fame faded. Zhou Rong, who had been cherished by my father since childhood, carefree and innocent, grew into a young woman. But the years that followed were all filled with misfortune. At the age of 20, she defied her family's opposition and married my father. During her pregnancy, she endured domestic violence but couldn't bear to abort the child and divorce. At the age of 23, when I was just born, she was informed that I had a huge tumor in my abdomen, and she cried until her eyes were nearly blind. Borrowing money everywhere to seek medical treatment for me, she matured overnight, transforming from a girl into a mother. I survived, but her marriage died. Endless quarrels, fights, and emotional abuse led to her face being etched in my memory, the ruthless look when my father poured scalding hot tea on her chest.

When I was seven, she ended the marriage. With no money after the divorce, she left the county where she had lived for nearly 30 years and went out to work. Later, she met an old classmate who had pursued her, and they fell in love again, but three years later, that classmate was diagnosed with late-stage cancer. The man she thought she would spend the rest of her life with wasted away in front of her, a mere skeleton. She did all sorts of odd jobs, selling clothes in a clothing store, promoting furniture in a furniture store, serving tea and water in a teahouse, working as a nanny... She was looked down upon, taken advantage of countless times. Every time she visited me, she stayed in the cheapest motel. She spent half her life drifting, without a home. She was supposed to be a flourishing flower, but fate crushed her into mud that anyone could trample.

At the wedding, I had prepared to address my stepfather. The first line of my speech was designed to say, "My mother has suffered a lot; please take good care of her." But when I stood on the stage, the prepared words stuck in my throat. On my mother's joyous day, I couldn't speak of "suffering." Her suffering was engraved on her heart and even more so on mine. From now on, I will cherish her.

Three

As a bridesmaid, I stood behind my mother and couldn't see how happy she was when she said "I do." In my memories, I've seen many kinds of despair on her face. When my grandfather passed away when I was twelve or thirteen, I accompanied my mother to the crematorium in a daze. I watched her whispering to the coffin, wiping her tears while staring at the crematory, holding a huge black umbrella under the scorching sun, cradling my grandfather's ashes in her arms. I can no longer recall her expression at the time. Now, recalling that scene, I feel only thick fog-like loneliness and sorrow in my heart. Unfortunately, back then, I never thought to wipe her tears or hug her. I only remembered I was my mother's daughter, but I forgot that my mother was also my grandfather's daughter. I only pitied the tears I shed for my mother, but I never realized how many tears my mother shed for me.

Before the age of eighteen, my mother's name in my phone wasn't "Mom," it was "Zhou Rong." A cold name, expressing a young girl's estrangement and alienation from her mother. As I grew into a woman, gradually understanding the hardships of being a wife and mother, I forgave her, and myself, little by little. Finally, I could call out to my mother with the innocence and affection of a woodland creature. "Mom," "Mom," calling out this name, I feel like I can return to the paradise of my birth, where there is no hatred or separation, no violence or sadness, only the warm sun shining down, me resting my head on my mother's lap, everything pure and white, just like our white dresses.

Three days after the wedding, I finally saw the photos of my mother at the wedding. Among the many colorful photos, she smiled beautifully, her eyes radiating light and hope, like a naive girl full of curiosity about the world.

If there really is a next life, let my mother be my daughter, and let me protect her smile.