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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.
“Huh.”
My answer, who hasn’t fully read my heart yet, was blunt.
“Sorry.”
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.
“Mom.”
“Huh.”
” 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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