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Story 868 I couldn’t say it

“Are you mad?”
She hasn’t talked for a while and is looking ahead, so her mother asked in a small voice. When I talk to my mother, I fight every three times. And once before fighting, I shut my mouth like this. If I talk as it is, I feel like I’ll fight my mom again, so I endure it alone. Maybe the other one is for my mom to bear.
My answer, who hasn’t fully read my heart yet, was blunt.
This is the problem. What I was trying to hold was bursting.
“Why are you sorry mom?”
“Then what to do. You’re angry.”
“Okay, that’s not something my mom should do, sorry.”
I have rarely been scolded by my mother. Until I was seven years old, I was sick so often that I had never been out of the hospital, and my mother raised me very much. My mother can’t scold me hard, and my arguments are too strong, and I rarely accept her opinions. Since high school -probably my adolescence- after fighting loudly with my mom over a very trivial problem, we always look like friends. I fight sometimes, and I reconcile quickly.
Mom and I sat for a while waiting for Dad to pick us up. I opened my mouth after counting ten cars passing on the street.
” I know. If success is what you get by saying that you are right, you don’t need that kind of success.”
“I’ll say that what’s wrong is wrong. I’ve lived that way, and I don’t change.”
“Then you get hurt.”
“It can’t be helped.”
Mom sighed. I know, what my mom cares about. It depends on how you define success, but maybe my mom will be happy if I do. But more than that, my mom wants me not to get hurt. Even if I’m hit by a hundred missiles in my heart, I’m not living wearing armor without a nod. I’m just saying I can’t do that about what I can’t tolerate. Still, you have to be confident. You have to be proud. Of course, I won’t always be right. But first of all, I did.
My mother, who has lived a life close to twice as much as me, tells her to be patient because she sees the same dirt everywhere in the world. Sometimes I need that too. Think about it once. Don’t just say it’s wrong. I replied that I wasn’t saying I was wrong, and my mother told me not to take all the wrong things like that. That’s the conversation that took place before I shut up.
The spring breeze blew quietly. The green leaves shook. The fingers of my mother sitting next to me were warm. When Dad’s car was seen from a distance, Mom stood up. With the little warmth that disappeared between my hands, I gently moved my fingers that had touched my mother.

Actually, I wanted to tell you.

I wish my mom was on my side. Even if everyone sees me outside and you’re wrong, even if you shouldn’t live like that, I wish my mom who knew me was on my side. If you say just that right, you will be hurt, but I would like you to say, “My mom is on your side.”

I looked back and beckoned my mother who wasn’t following me. I got up quickly and quickly rubbed my face while my mom wasn’t looking at me while getting in the car.

But I couldn’t say it because I thought I would cry when I talked.

Because my mom hurts more when I cry.

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