When Snow Falls on the Tombstone

Ive always dreaded my birthday.

Every year, on that day, I had to kneel before my mothers grave for an entire day.

Mom died from an amniotic fluid embolism, the very day she gave birth to me. From then on, I became the familys culprit.

Dad hated me. My grandparents never gave me a kind look. They all said I was the one who killed Mom.

On my eighth birthday, I cautiously tugged at Dads sleeve, speaking in a small voice, Dad, I feel so unwell today. Can I not go to Moms grave?

But Dads eyes turned red, and he roared at me, Your mom died giving birth to you! If you dont go to her tombstone and repent, how can you face her?

He wouldn't listen to my explanations. Like discarding trash, he dropped me in front of Moms tombstone and walked away without looking back.

Watching Dads retreating figure, I let out a soft laugh.

Dad, when I die, will you stop hating me then?

Dad had long since disappeared from sight, leaving me alone at the tombstone with a pile of unburned paper money.

I curled up, leaning against the cold stone. Mom, I whispered, Auntie Doctor said I have a very serious illness. My stomach will hurt constantly, until I die.

As I finished speaking, the pain in my belly intensified, like a thousand ants burrowing into my flesh.

The wind grew stronger, whipping my hair into a tangled mess and blowing the ashes of the paper money onto my neck. I raised a hand to wipe them away, only to feel cold sweat on my face.

Mom, when I die, will I finally see you?

When I do, please dont dislike me like Dad does, okay? I didnt mean to make you die

I lay prostrate against the tombstone, too weak to move from the pain, my gaze fixed on Moms smiling face in the photo.

Suddenly, I remembered what my grandparents used to say. They said Dad and Mom were childhood sweethearts, growing up together, always inseparable. Later, they grew up, naturally married, and lived very happily. Grandma even said Mom was the smartest and prettiest girl on the whole street. She could sing, dance, and paint, and Dad always doted on her like a little princess.

Grandma also mentioned that, as I was nearing birth, Dad was ecstatic every single day. He bought tiny clothes and toys for me in advance, telling everyone he met that he was going to be a father.

But everything changed on the day I was born.

Dad never got to see Mom deliver me safely. Instead, he received news from the doctor. The doctor said Mom didn't survive an amniotic fluid embolism. Dad, who had been eagerly anticipating my arrival, instantly turned red-eyed upon hearing the news. He went wild, trying to rush into the delivery room to strangle me. It took several doctors to hold him back and save me.

From that day on, I became his enemy, the murderer who killed Mom.

The sky slowly darkened, and the snow fell heavier, like goose feathers drifting everywhere. I suddenly remembered Grandma mentioning on Mom's death anniversary that it was also a day of heavy snowfall when Mom left, a cold that made everyone shiver.

The searing pain in my stomach, which had been agonizing moments ago, slowly lessened as the snowflakes drifted down. I braced myself against the tombstone and slowly sat up, gazing towards the direction of home.

These past years, Dad hadn't fared well either. Since I could remember, I'd never seen Dad smile. Every day, besides work, he would stare blankly at Mom's photo.

I wanted to go back.

Anyway, my remaining days were few. I might as well do something for Dad now.

The house was eerily quiet; Dad hadnt come home from work yet.

I gathered the dirty clothes from the sofa into the laundry basin, poured in detergent, and scrubbed them clean one by one, hanging them on the line in the yard. My hands were red and raw from the cold, but I didn't stop.

After the clothes were hung, I took a broom and swept the entire yard and inside the house. Chinese New Year was coming soon. I wouldnt be here for it, but I hoped Dad wouldnt look so gloomy this year.

Done with the chores, I dug out the pocket money I had saved for a long time from my backpack. Counting it, it was exactly $87.5. This was just enough to buy some groceries.

Clutching the money, I walked to the market, selecting some green vegetables Dad liked, potatoes, and the occasional cut of pork belly he bought. Fearing Dad might forget, I found a sticky note and scrawled Eat the greens soon, pork belly in the freezer, then taped it to the fridge.

With little change left, I stood outside the cake shop, hesitating for a long time before finally going in.

In all my eight years, I had never had a birthday cake. My deskmate said cake was delicious, sweet, a hundred times better than candy. Today, I wanted to fulfill this one wish.

I entered the shop and bought the smallest cream cake. It had a tiny strawberry on top and a single candle. Snowflakes landed on the cake box, as if celebrating with me.

Back home, I carefully placed the cake on the table, gently opening the box. I didn't eat it immediately. Instead, I copied how people celebrated birthdays on TV, clasping my hands, closing my eyes, and making a serious wish to the tiny candle.

My first wish was that after I died, Dad would live happily, no longer staring blankly at Mom's photo, no longer trapped by sadness.

My second wish was that in my next life, I would still be Mom and Dad's daughter. I would definitely be good, and I would definitely not let anything happen to Mom again.

As I came to the third wish, I paused. Was it too greedy to make so many wishes at once? But I really wanted to be greedy just one more time. I knew my time was short, so for my third wish, I wanted my stomach to stop hurting. Even if it was just for these last few days, could I spend them peacefully?

After making my wishes, I picked up the small fork, dug out a tiny piece of cake, and put it in my mouth. A sweet sensation bloomed on my tongue. My deskmate hadn't lied; the cake was truly, truly sweet.

I held the fork, about to take a second bite, when the front door suddenly creaked open.

It was Dad, returning with the smell of alcohol on him. My heart tightened, and I instinctively pushed the cake further onto the table.

As soon as Dad entered, he saw the cake. "You're not kneeling at your mother's grave in repentance, and you dare to come home and sneak cake? Do you deserve to eat this cake?!"

No sooner had he spoken than he strode over, raising his hand and sweeping the cake to the floor. Before I could react, there was a sharp smack, and a burning pain instantly flared on my cheek.

I was stunned, tears immediately rolling down my face. Dad hated me, but he had never hit me before. This was the first time.

Suddenly, a wrenching cramp, more violent than any before, tore through my stomach, like countless sharp knives twisting simultaneously. The pain made me curl up on the floor, clutching my belly tightly with both hands.

Dad still stood there, his chest heaving. He raised his hand, seemingly intending to strike again. I trembled with fear, begging through my tears, "Dad, don't hit me I won't eat it, I won't ever eat it again."

My words made Dads raised hand freeze. He stared at my pale face, and his uplifted palm unconsciously lowered. But the next second, he averted his eyes, simply snarling, "Get out, go to your mother's grave now. Don't come back without my permission!"

I bit my lip, enduring the excruciating pain in my stomach, and slowly crawled up from the floor. Outside, the snow was falling even harder, and the biting wind felt like knives cutting my face. I hunched my shoulders, inching my way back to Mom's grave.

Kneeling before Mom's tombstone again, I buried my head in my knees, my voice choked with tears, softly talking to Mom: "Mom, I'm sorry, I made Dad angry again."

"He saw me eating cake and shouted at me fiercely, knocked the cake over, and slapped me. It's the first time Dad has ever hit me, but I don't blame him. I shouldn't have secretly come home to eat cake today."

I paused, then looked up at Mom's photo. "Mom, but I did get to taste the cake. Even though it was just a small bite, it was really, really sweet."

"I'm already very satisfied. This was my first birthday wish in eight years, and it came true."

The snow continued to fall, landing on my hair, on my shoulders, slowly turning me into a little snowman. Looking at Moms picture, I suddenly felt lost.

To be honest, my memory of Mom's face was always hazy. All these years, Id never once dreamed of her. Was Mom blaming me too, for causing her death? Was that why she wouldn't come to see me, not even in my dreams?

I couldn't hold back anymore; large tears rolled down my face, the emotional pain spreading through me. "Mom, I really didn't mean it I didn't want you to die"

No sooner had I spoken than a gush of metallic sweetness surged into my throat. A mouthful of fresh blood burst out, splashing onto the pristine white snow. The excruciating pain in my stomach instantly peaked. My vision went black, and I could no longer stand, collapsing.

I dont know how long passed before I woke up. There was no longer the biting cold, nor the heart-wrenching pain. My body felt light, like a feather. I looked down and realized I was curled up in front of Moms tombstone, my small body largely covered by white snow.

So, I had died.

I tried to move, but my body floated up involuntarily. A gust of wind carried me, uncontrollably, towards the direction of home.

I drifted through the yard gate, directly towards the second floor. That small, secluded room on the second floor; Dad never allowed me near it. Every time I curiously peered towards its door, he would snap at me. But now, I passed through unimpeded.

As soon as I entered the room, I froze. The walls were covered with Moms photos: her with a ponytail, her smiling radiantly in a wedding dress, candid shots of her cooking in the kitchen. Each photo was perfectly preserved.

Dad sat on the floor, leaning against the wardrobe, tightly clutching a pale yellow sweater. His shoulders trembled violently as he murmured Moms name over and over: Clara how much longer can I hold on?

He buried his face in the sweater, crying like a helpless child: The way I treated our daughter, will you blame me?

But I truly couldnt control myself. Every time I saw her, I remembered you left because of her

I hate her, but in reality, I hate myself. I hate myself for not protecting you.

I floated in mid-air, watching him weep, broken and helpless, and tears instantly welled up in my eyes. So, Dad didn't truly hate me. He just mistook his guilt for Mom, his responsibility for himself, as anger towards me.

All these years, he had suffered more than I had. I yearned to rush to him, to tell him I understood everything, to wipe away his tears. But my hand passed through his body again and again, unable to touch anything. I circled him frantically, desperately shouting:

"Dad, I don't blame you!"

"Please stop tormenting yourself! Mom wouldn't want to see you like this either, Dad, please cheer up."

Dad cried for what felt like an eternity, finally stopping. He staggered to his feet, walked to a cabinet in the corner of the room, and pulled out a bottle of liquor. He raised the bottle, tilting his head back to take a large gulp. The burning liquid slid down his throat, but he seemed to feel nothing, only exhaling a heavy sigh.

As long as I could remember, Dad was especially fond of drinking, often getting completely drunk. But Id heard Grandma say that when Mom was alive, Dad never touched alcohol.