On my eighteenth birthday, all I wanted was a slice of cream cake. Instead, because I didn't crack the top ten in my mock exams, my mother told me I might as well be dead. I sat on the rooftop, crying quietly. The firefighters spent ages trying to talk me down. But my mom? She slapped me across the face, shoving me while screaming, "Why don't you jump? Go ahead, jump!" She pushed too hard. I fell. The firefighter broke down in tears. On my eighteenth birthday, the results of the second mock exam came out. I choked. I ranked eighteenth in my grade. The moment I saw the ranking, I started shaking. Nausea roiled in my stomach, spasms racking my body. I almost threw up. My mother's voice crashed through my mind like a nightmare. "Lily, you are my pride. You must study hard. Don't disappoint me!" "Lily, everyone laughs at me for not having a son. But I will prove to them that my daughter is ten thousand times better than their sons!" "Lily, if you dare slack off, I will die right in front of you. I will die with my eyes open!" ... Cold sweat broke out on my skin. My face felt unnaturally hot, my breathing ragged. Eighteenth. If I didn't make the top ten, Mom would go crazy. After school, I walked home in silence. Up ahead, I saw a girl throw herself into her mother's arms, sobbing about how poorly she did on a test. Her mother hugged her tight, saying it didn't matter, that she could just try harder next time. I clearly saw her mother wipe a tear from her eye. She was crying, too. My heart clenched. Why was it so easy for other mothers to cry for their daughters? Over the years, I had become obsessed with other mothers' tears. The neighbor would tear up when her daughter scraped her knee. My desk mate's mom would cry just seeing her daughter had lost a little weight. The single mom who ran the convenience store downstairs would often touch her daughter's face with misty eyes. Why? Why was it so easy for them? Back home, the table was set with steaming dishes and my favorite cream cake. Mom had prepared it specially for me. She ran out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. Her weathered face was lit up with an expectant smile. "Lily, save the cake for later. How did you do? Did you make the top ten?" I kept my head down, my mind a chaotic mess, still thinking about other mothers' tears. "Speak, Lily. What was your rank?" Mom stopped smiling. Her thin frame seemed to hunch over, her expression hardening instantly. "Eighteenth," I whispered, my throat feeling like it was filled with lead. My fingers trembled. I added hurriedly, "Mom, I promise I'll make the top ten next time!" I fantasized that she would comfort me. That she would urge me to eat the cake. That she would say it was okay, just do better next time. But she said nothing. She just stared at me, her eyes slowly turning red. Not from sadness. From rage. "Lily, good for you. You're getting worse and worse. Are you studying with your ass?" Mom screamed, "Tell me, how are you studying? Do you know how hard I work for you? I get up before dawn to work. Look at my hands!" She thrust her hands out. They were covered in deep, jagged cracks—scars of years of hard labor, healing and splitting open again and again. "Look closely! All of this is for you! To pay rent, to buy food, to buy you clothes!" She pressed her palms right in front of my face, panting. Then she pointed at the door. "Do you know what people say about me? That I can't have a son! All our relatives have sons, except me!" "My only hope is you. You must get into Harvard or Stanford! You must make something of yourself! Do you understand?!" This was the craziest she had ever been. Because the SATs were approaching, and she was more anxious than anyone. If I failed, her life would dim forever. She would lose the last bit of pride keeping her upright. I squatted on the floor and cried. The image of other mothers' tears filled my mind again. Why was it so easy for them? "Mom... if I were a boy... would I not have to work this hard?" I finally asked the question I had buried deep in my heart. Since I was little, I wondered why I always had to be compared to other people's sons. I was a girl. "You have the nerve to ask? If you were a son, would people look down on me?!" It was like I poked her rawest wound. She roared, "I'm the only one in the village without a son! The only one in the family! Do you know how people stab me in the back?!" "They say you're a money-losing investment! If you don't make me proud, who will?!" She spoke her truth. Tears streamed down my face. "I'm not a money-losing investment... I don't want to be compared to boys anymore. I'm so tired..." "Tired? What work have you done? Do you know I work until I cough blood every day? What right do you have to be tired?" She raised her hand to slap me. I looked at her. "So tired... tired enough to die..." "Then go die! Go die!" The slap didn't land, but her disappointment was crushing. She flipped the table. Dishes crashed. Food scattered everywhere. Mom stormed into her room and slammed the door. I stood there, lost. I stood for a long time, then turned and walked toward the roof. The sunset was beautiful. I stood on the roof, looking down at the traffic, listening to distant laughter. I felt dazed. So tired. Even standing was tiring. So I sat down. I sat on the edge of the low, old rooftop, my legs dangling over the seven-story drop. Down on the street, someone spotted me and screamed. "Look! Someone's going to jump!" Gazes turned upward, shocked and chaotic. I snapped back to reality. Oh, they think I'm going to jump. "Little girl, don't jump! You're so young!" "Don't move! Go back inside!" People shouted at me, concerned and anxious. My heart warmed slightly, then ached even more. Why did strangers care more than my own mother? I wasn't going to jump. I just wanted to sit here. I wanted to wait for Mom's concern. Ideally, her tears. I wanted her to cry for me just once. The firefighters came. They inflated a cushion below. Several firefighters came up to the roof. The neighbors were all alerted, peeking from the stairwell. I watched them silently. I watched the firefighters getting closer. "Little girl, don't be impulsive. Calm down first..." A young firefighter raised his hand, greeting me gently. I sat silently. He kept talking to me, trying to soothe me, distract me. But I had no emotions left. His words spun around in my ears and floated away. He talked until his lips were dry. Then my mom came up. The firefighters brought her to talk me down. But she was shocked and furious. She pointed at me in disbelief. "Lily Lin, you want to jump? Are you crazy?" "Ma'am, please calm down. We need to stabilize your daughter's emotions," the firefighter signaled her to stop. Mom took a deep breath. Her eyes turned red again. She held out her hands once more, showing those gnarly scars. "Lily, look at my hands. Where have I failed you? You just have to study! How does that make you tired enough to die?" She questioned me, urgent and angry. My heart trembled. I didn't want to see her hands. I didn't want to see them at all. Those hands crushed me. They were her suffering, her sacrifice for me. Seeing them made me feel guilty and sad. I had failed her. "Little girl, your mom loves you very much. She was crying when she heard you were up here. That's why we let her up," another firefighter said, giving the first one a look. The young firefighter stepped closer tentatively, reaching out. "Is the study pressure too much? It's okay. We'll talk to your mom. She's wrong, but she has a sharp tongue and a soft heart. Look how worried she is..." He turned to my mom. "Ma'am, you love your daughter very much, right?" Mom pursed her lips, took a deep breath. "Yes. Lily, come down." Mom admitted she loved me. I finally got a shred of concern. My heart loosened, and tears poured out uncontrollably. The firefighter seized the moment, grabbed me, and pulled me down. He exhaled a long breath, patting my head. "Okay, okay. Don't think silly thoughts." I said 'okay' in my heart, looking at Mom through my tears. Even though she still hadn't cried for me, I really wanted to hug her. She rushed over and slapped me across the face. Her face was tight with rage, eyes bulging, veins throbbing in her neck. "Lily, jump then! Why aren't you jumping? You ungrateful thing, where do you get the nerve to act like this?" I was stunned. The firefighters were stunned. "How did I give birth to such an ignorant thing? Are you only happy when you've completely humiliated me?" Mom roared. She screamed at me, at the firefighters, then over the edge at the crowd below. "Come look, everyone! I don't care about my face anymore! My daughter is so filial, jumping off a building!" A deep chill settled in my bones. I suddenly realized that saving face was what mattered most to her. I was a girl, so I was shameful. I wasn't better than my relatives' sons, so I was shameful. My suicide attempt caused a scene, so I was shameful. "Mom, so you want me to jump," my tears stopped strangely. My voice was dry, my eyes dull. "Yes, jump! You're an embarrassment!" She kept cursing, shoving me with both hands. "Jump! I raised you for nothing! Jump!" She was frantic, seemingly forgetting how low the parapet was on this cheap rental, forgetting I was right next to the edge. Her shove sent my body tilting backward. My center of gravity shifted over the abyss. In the next instant, I fell. The last thing I saw was Mom's face morphing from rage to pure horror. Seven stories. Twenty-one meters. Two seconds of free fall. Maybe two seconds. One breath. Smack. I hit the ground. My eighteen years of life, smashed onto the pavement. Pushed by my own mother. Flesh tore, bones snapped, blood seeped from every pore... "Ah!" Screams erupted. The street was in chaos. People recoiled in horror. The firefighters manning the cushion rushed over—I hadn't landed in the center. I clipped the edge and hit the ground, blood staining the side of the yellow plastic. I didn't die immediately. I hit an awning on the way down, so my legs and hips took the impact. I was groggy. I didn't feel much pain, just exhaustion. Bone-deep tiredness. Then, lightness. So light. My body and soul felt weightless, like a dandelion seed floating on the asphalt. "Little sister!" The young firefighter from the roof burst out of the stairwell. He was sweating profusely, face pale, eyes full of disbelief and confusion. "Don't touch her! Ambulance!" another firefighter yelled, holding back the crowd. The young firefighter didn't come close. He just stood there staring at me, shaking uncontrollably. He seemed to care about me. I felt a trace of joy. Someone cared. Maybe he was a rookie. Maybe I was the first person he tried to save. Too bad I failed him. "I saved her... I had her..." he stammered, trembling. His colleagues held him back, shielding his eyes. The ambulance arrived. I was lifted onto a stretcher in a daze. Or maybe scooped up. My lower body was shattered. But that didn't matter. What mattered was Mom. Where was she? I wanted to see Mom. I wanted to see her cry. That was my only wish left. Mom, please cry. Finally, she appeared. She walked out holding the wall for support, her face blank and numb. People made way for her like she was a plague. She saw me on the stretcher and stood there, dazed. Was she in shock? "Why did you push your daughter?! Are you human?!" The young firefighter saw her and snapped. He screamed, eyes red, pointing a shaking finger at her. Mom flinched, like her soul slammed back into her body. Realization hit. Her face went paler than death, then flushed an unnatural waxy red. Her breathing hitched, like she couldn't catch air. "I talked her down! Why did you push her?! Why?!" He was still screaming, tears streaming down his face. My weightless soul felt another flicker of joy. Someone was crying for me. But why wasn't it Mom? Mom didn't cry. She bit her lip until it bled, clenching her fists until the veins popped. She walked toward me, step by stiff step. Like a broken robot. "Drive! Family, get in!" the medic shouted. The ambulance was leaving. Mom took two quick steps, stumbling, almost falling. She was finally close enough. She could see me. I started hallucinating. Was I still alive? Were my eyes open? Was it me looking at her, or my soul? Mom was pushed into the ambulance by a firefighter. She squatted stiffly beside me, staring stiffly at me. Her lip was bitten through, bleeding. Her arms were rigid. But still, she didn't cry.
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