The First Sleepless Night
The cold moonlight streamed through the window, casting a tear-like streak across the floor through the gap in the slightly open curtains. Ji Moli tossed and turned in the dim light; the sheets beneath her were soft and cold, mirroring her tangled and broken heart. Sleepless nights had left her weary, the weariness etched on her brow and trickling down her cheeks, oblivious to the few strands of gray that had crept into her temples. An unprecedented, overwhelming grief, devouring all warmth, seeped into her being like invisible ice water, leaving her wanting nothing more than to curl up in a cold shell. Moli stood up and looked in the mirror. Looking at herself, how could this be…
She had just said goodbye to her son. That ten-year-old boy, Cheng Xi, with a dimple when he smiled, seemingly radiating sunshine. His life had just begun, he hadn't even had a chance to grow properly before he was abruptly and forever gone. She longed to fall into a deep sleep, even just for a moment of numbness, fantasizing that she would wake up to find it was all just a vivid nightmare, that her son was still alive and well in the next room, and that the sounds of her husband's intense gaming session could still be faintly heard. But she couldn't. Grief, like a dull knife, repeatedly cut into her nerves, forcing her to consciously endure every single second of this slow, agonizing torture. She didn't want to face the fact that her son was gone, and even less did she want to face the future that had completely collapsed with him. The future? Perhaps, there was no future anymore.
Just a few months ago, this home was filled with warmth and life. Chengcheng would shuffle into the kitchen in his slippers, hug her from behind as she cooked, his little face pressed against her back, shouting, "Mommy, what's good to eat today? I'm hungry!" He would come back from playing outside, brimming with the vibrant energy of a little boy, casually tossing a basketball in the entryway, gulping down a large glass of cold water, and then vividly recounting his "victories" on the court. He was lively and adorable, a sweet and caring little boy who would use his saved allowance to buy her a vibrant hydrangea on Mother's Day, with a card bearing a crooked but heartwarming "Mommy, I love you." He was incredibly thoughtful, having his father place a glass of warm honey water by her bedside when she came home late. How could such a warm, kind, and vibrant child suddenly be gone? Moli often felt that her son was the only bright spot in her drab middle-aged life, the warmest emotional support in her moments of exhaustion. Now, this pillar has collapsed, leaving behind endless longing and utter darkness.
Mo Li was a professional woman working in a company. A master's graduate, she had once harbored ambitions to make a name for herself. However, over the years, her work gradually became stagnant, consisting of writing endless industry analysis reports and market research PowerPoint presentations. Even more serious was the sudden shift in the socio-economic structure towards high-tech industries, which gradually diminished her industry. Rumors of layoffs were rampant, and a tense atmosphere permeated the office, ultimately leading to unpaid wages and forced resignation. She had tried to change things, but labels like "35 years old" and "traditional industry work experience" seemed like original sins in the job market. Most of her resumes disappeared without a trace, and even when she did receive a response, she often encountered invisible age and gender barriers during interviews. She felt a deep sense of powerlessness and backwardness. Would pursuing another degree change how society perceived her? But her family's finances had been strained by three years of unemployment; the value of their old property had shrunk by 40%. Selling it meant nowhere to live, but keeping it meant the burden of a mortgage. The industry's decline and her career plateau were like two walls gradually closing in, trapping her in the middle and making her feel extremely anxious and suffocated. The sudden death of her son completely shattered the psychological defenses she had barely maintained.
Her husband was her college classmate, and he started working early after graduating with his bachelor's degree. His parents had passed away early, and he was kind and gentle. He worked a monotonous technical job in a state-owned enterprise—stable, but lacking excitement. He had lost the ambition he had in his youth and had become overly introverted and passive. He wasn't like this back then. As a young boyfriend, he would reserve a seat for her in every class, get food for his beloved girl in the sweltering summer, accompany her in life and studies, worry about her safety, and rekindle her fighting spirit when she faced setbacks. It was this steadfast protection that touched her. Ten years of marriage had transformed their initial acquaintance into a familial bond. Her husband habitually dealt with pressure through silence. Whether it was work troubles or family problems, he tended to avoid direct communication, as if ignoring the issues would make them disappear. Moli, on the other hand, longed for communication and to share the burden, but every attempt at in-depth conversation ultimately felt like punching cotton, dissolved by her husband's silence or a simple "Don't overthink it." This "suffocating feeling beneath the surface of calm" often left her with a nameless anger simmering in her chest. The only thing left in the marriage was the shared responsibility of raising the child.
At this moment, the pain of losing their son weighed heavily on them. The husband, equally pale, had bloodshot eyes filled with disbelief and agony. He looked at Moli, his lips twitching as if he wanted to say something, but it only turned into a heavy sigh. He understood his wife's breakdown; his own heart was being torn apart, but his deeply ingrained coping mechanisms led him to choose silence and solitary processing once again. He believed that any words were pale and powerless in the face of such immense death, and that remaining quiet and continuing with daily life was the least disturbing thing for their wounded hearts. However, this silence, in Moli's eyes, was an emotional absence and a barrier. The warm water he offered, the food he silently prepared, all became invisible pressures reminding her that she "must be strong," that she "must keep living," and the nameless fire that had nowhere to go burned even brighter—she couldn't blame a man who was also grieving; this suffocating feeling could only burn her internally.
"Mom, I love you. Don't be sad when I'm gone. I know you love me too, and that's why I don't want you to be sad. I hope you can hold my hand. I'm afraid of the dark. In the next life, I'll still choose you as my mom... I'll hold you tight and never let you go again." These were the words her son uttered with his last breath, like the gentlest curse, echoing in Moli's ears again and again. This child, even in his final moments, was thinking of her.
"Mom can't bear to part with you... Please don't..." Moli's tears streamed down her face, her words broken by sobs. The thousand unspoken words she couldn't utter were forever silenced as her son's eyelids finally closed. She gripped his hand tightly, his hand growing cold. That hand, once so strong, capable of dribbling and writing neat characters, was now unbelievably soft, as soft as melting snow. Instinctively, she wanted to squeeze harder, as if that could hold onto his fading soul, but then immediately loosened her grip with a pang of heartache, afraid of hurting him, even knowing he could no longer feel any pain. This extreme contradiction tore at her heart.
Only when the hospital urged her to leave did Moli return to her home, a place devoid of her son's laughter, in a daze. Her legs felt like cotton, weak and limp; she felt weightless, as if her soul had left her body, leaving only an empty shell adrift in the air. Her husband silently supported her; the strength and warmth of his arms, meant as support, now felt like a sharp reminder of their ordinary yet happy days together. Each touch seemed to whisper: Look, you were once a complete family of three; now, one piece is missing, and it can never be replaced. A nameless fire rose within her—a fire that burned through her, a fire that choked her, a fire that gnawed at her heart. But who could she blame? Fate for its injustice? The hospital for its incompetence? Her husband and she for failing to care for their child? Any accusation seemed absurd and cruel at that moment, especially since her husband was also grieving the loss of their son. This frustration of having nowhere to vent her anger and nowhere to voice her grievances intensified her despair, making her feel almost suffocated.
"Let's go." After enduring what felt like an eternity of suffocating silence, Moli finally managed to squeeze out these two words from her dry throat, her voice hoarse and unlike her own. She paused, then added, more like a self-persuasion, "We're all tired."
The man didn't speak, only gave her a deep look, his eyes filled with complex emotions—sorrow, weariness, and perhaps a hint of resentment at being misunderstood—but he ultimately said nothing. He quietly turned and went into the kitchen, like a programmed robot, mechanically washing, chopping, and turning on the stove. Soon, the familiar roar of the range hood and the sizzling of ingredients hitting the pan filled the kitchen. He thought that perhaps cooking some of his wife's favorite dishes, perhaps maintaining the facade of daily life, would offer a sliver of hope. He strained his ears and heard his wife's unsteady footsteps enter the bathroom, followed by the sound of running water. A slight sense of relief washed over him; if his wife was still the clean girl she used to be, there was still hope. He simply prepared a few simple home-style dishes that his son and he usually loved, setting them on the table, their colors as vibrant as ever. He left a note under a plate: "Eat a little something, I have to go take care of something." Then, he hurriedly left home. There were still many trivial and cruel procedures waiting for him to handle in reality... These specific matters seemed to become a barrier, temporarily isolating him from his sadness and not even giving him a chance to freely vent his emotions.
Moli emerged from the bathroom, the warm water failing to dispel the chill in her heart. She wrapped her wet hair in a towel, curled up on the bed, as if that would bring her back to her safest state. She refused all visits and inquiries from relatives and friends. She knew her older siblings cared, but each of their families was happy and harmonious, their children lively and healthy. Their comfort and advice, no matter how sincere, sounded like unintentional boasting to her at that moment, only highlighting her misfortune and incompleteness. She didn't even have the strength to feign strength or cope with the situation. Her phone screen flickered a few times; it was a message from her mother. Her mother's familiar yet habitually anxious voice came from the other end: "Moli, how...how did things go? Don't be too sad, life goes on...Look at you, if you had listened to your mother and taken the civil service exam, how stable you would be now, no worries about unemployment, and more time to take care of the family...Sigh, it's too late to say all this now, you were just too stubborn..."
Listening to her mother's words, Moli's heart sank deeper and deeper. It was the same again. From childhood, no matter what difficulties she encountered, her parents' first reaction was rarely emotional acceptance and comfort; more often, it was a nagging "if only we had known" attitude. They believed that a person's value was always tied to their work, never considering that their children's emotional well-being needed serious attention. When she insisted on staying in the big city and working in a company, her parents saw it as unstable and lacking social standing. Now, unemployed, her mother's words still carried a subtle hint of resentment, a "you didn't listen to your elders." This estrangement, rooted in her upbringing, made her feel even more isolated and helpless when faced with such a dramatic change, unable to obtain genuine emotional support from her family of origin. She silently hung up the phone, burying her face in the pillow, shutting out all external sounds. This emotional alienation from her family of origin deepened her loneliness and helplessness.
Listening to her husband's busy work in the kitchen, those sounds that once represented warmth and the comfort of everyday life now felt like a hammer, relentlessly striking her already fragile nerves. A dull ache lingered in her heart until she heard the door close and leave, confirming she was alone. Only then, as if drained of her last ounce of strength, did she slowly crawl out of bed.
She walked blankly into the dining room, her gaze sweeping vacantly over the dishes on the table. The sweet and sour pork ribs still looked tempting, the stir-fried vegetables exuded a delicate fragrance, and the tomato and egg soup steamed gently. Each dish was like a key, attempting to unlock the floodgates of memory, but behind the doors lay a deeper darkness. These were the dishes she loved, and her son loved them too. "Baby, Mommy's here with you. Let's go somewhere without worries, without pressure." Once this thought arose, it grew wildly like vines, tightly binding her heart.
A decision quietly took shape amidst profound sorrow and despair. She went to the locker and took out the bottle of sleeping pills the doctor had prescribed. The white pills clinked softly in the bottle, sounding to her like an invitation to a world of tranquility. She carefully ground the pills into powder, and then, almost reverently, sprinkled them into each dish, gently stirring with chopsticks. Her movements were slow and focused, as if performing some important ritual.
She sat down, picked up her chopsticks, and imagined it was just another ordinary day, the three of them sitting around a table eating. Her son would chatter away, her husband would listen quietly, occasionally putting a piece of food on her plate. She began to eat calmly, even gratefully. She ate the delicious food with fond memories, and happily completed this final journey.
After dinner, she carefully washed the dishes and wiped the stove clean, as if performing any ordinary chores. Then, she went into her son's room. Everything in the room was exactly as it had been: the sketchbook open on the desk, the toy gun and Ultraman cards on the bedside table—the room was filled with the simple, playful charm of a little boy. She spread out the light blue summer blanket her son loved to use in the summer, gently lay down, and pulled the blanket over her head. The blanket seemed to still carry her son's familiar scent, instantly shattering all her pretense.
Moli silently thought, "Chengxi, wherever you are, that's where Mommy is. We'll never be apart again." Only this belief could temporarily rescue her from the boundless, suffocating abyss before her, giving her the courage to move towards the end. Thinking of seeing her son soon, all the pain, resentment, and despair seemed to find their home. With this thought, Moli closed her eyes, no longer tossing and turning, a long-lost, almost peaceful expression even appearing on her face, and she fell into a deep sleep. The night outside the window grew ever darker, permeated with the endless joys and sorrows of the world.
Continue read on readnovelmtl.com