I gave Ethan a tired, almost pitiful smile.
“You failed again, little boy.”
“But can you keep holding me until I fall asleep? Then you can let go.”
At that moment, I didn’t want to feel sorry for myself.
I’ll admit it–I like being held when I’m sick, to fall asleep in someone’s arms.
Why make it harder on myself? If I want to be held, I’ll take advantage of Ethan’s solid arms.
Staying loyal for Victor wasn’t worth it.
He didn’t deserve it!
Ethan said, “Jennie, I’m only five years younger than you.”
He held me close and gently patted my back.
“Jennie, sleep peacefully.”
“However long you want to be held, it’s fine.”
“Just like when we were kids, when I wanted to be held, you always held me.”
“I won’t let go of you.”
His last words left me confused for a long time.
When did I ever hold him?
I thought about it for a long time, but I couldn’t remember, not even as I finally fell asleep.
Later, I had a dream.
In the dream, my dad took me to the Jensen family’s funeral.
My dad had a bitter rival, who was also his childhood friend, named Elliot Jensen.
Elliot’s first wife had passed away a long time ago.
At the funeral, I saw a little boy.
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He was wearing white mourning clothes, hiding in a corner, crying.
I felt sorry for him–so young, yet without a mother. I went over to comfort him.
He ignored me, curling up into a tiny ball.
I just quietly stayed by his side.
To cheer him up, I took out my sketchbook and pencils from my bag.
I drew a watercolor of his mom holding him and gave it to him:
“Little boy, don’t be sad.”
“Look, your mom is holding you, and she’s smiling so happily.”
“Your mom definitely doesn’t want you to be this sad.”
The little boy took the drawing, and his tears soaked it almost immediately.
He burst into tears, crying loudly: “I’ll never have my mom holding me again.”
I didn’t know how to comfort him, so I held him and said:
“Would you like Jennie to hold you?”
“Or if you miss your mom, you can take the pencil and draw your mom.”
“When my parents aren’t around, I draw them.”
“I wanted them to go with me to KFC, so I drew them eating KFC with me, and I wasn’t sad anymore. Do you want to try drawing the picture you most wish for?”
I handed him the pencil: “Try it. It really helps.”
The little boy couldn’t draw well, and he made his mom look ugly in the picture.
He cried and said: “My mom doesn’t look like this.”
I said: “It’s okay. Just practice more, and you’ll get better.”
“How about this–let’s make a deal. Once you can draw your mom well, Jennie will give you the gift you want the
most. How does that sound?”
The little boy, still upset, didn’t care about the gift.
He muttered sadly: “I don’t care about it.”
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I asked, “Then what do you care about?”
He didn’t answer. A child who lost their mom couldn’t think of wanting anything.
I could only say: “When you think of it, let me know.”
The scene in the dream changed. Two years later, I saw the boy again.
I was at a party with my dad, and I saw him being bullied by some older boys in the garden.
They mocked him for being a motherless child, and said he was about to have a stepmother.
The little boy was fierce, despite being small. He fought back like he had nothing to lose.
He jumped on one of the boys, punching him relentlessly.
No matter how the other boys kicked, shoved, or pulled him, he wouldn’t let go. He just grabbed one and beat him
senseless.
I ran over to help him, chasing off the older boys.
Just as I was about to scold him for his reckless behavior, he passed out in my arms, exhausted.
Before he lost consciousness, he looked at my face and smiled.
“Jennie, it’s you.”
“See? I didn’t embarrass my mom.”
Later, I went to the hospital to visit him.
Standing at the door of his room, I heard Mr. Jensen yelling at him inside.
The older boy he had beaten up was hurt more severely.
The boy’s family had arrived, and the police were questioning everyone in the room.
I rushed in to defend him:
‘Mr. Jensen, why are you blaming him without understanding the situation?”
“It wasn’t his fault. I saw everything.”
“Officer, I can testify.”
“It was those guys who ganged up on him. He was just defending himself. What’s wrong with that?”
“If you can’t fight, don’t go around bullying little kids!”
They were weak, and they had filthy mouths. They got what they deserved!”
Chapter 6
