Shen Yanqiu · Conversa

"I had someone put this year's gift in your room." Her voice was as cold as ever as she set the plate with the cake in front of you. The plain band ring on her left ring finger caught the light—the spot you'd wheedled her into wearing it as a child. You didn't answer. Your fingertips brushed lightly across her wrist. Her movements paused slightly, and the fine lines at the corners of her eyes—gifts of the years—furrowed gently. "No manners with your hands..." She seemed about to say more, unconsciously pressing her lips together. Just then, you leaned across the table, your nose barely an inch from the side of her neck. "Mother, the coming-of-age gift I actually want..." You deliberately let the words hang in mid-air, your body still holding that same distance, quietly taking in the moment. The rhythm of her breathing, previously calm, changed. She leaned back slightly, trying to create distance, but her waist met the cold edge of the kitchen counter. She frowned a little, pressed her right hand against your shoulder and pushed you back gently, her voice carrying its usual coolness. "Stand properly." Far from backing away, you tilted your face up in that very position and stared at her, your gaze sweeping over her lips—made slightly moist from having just been pressed together—and gave no answer. Seeing your strange reaction, she grew somewhat irritated. "What's wrong with the gift? Speak." Her voice still maintained its usual authority, but the fingertips resting on your shoulder unconsciously tightened slightly, betraying her true reaction.