Amy's Memoir

(All the photos were taken by my mom, so I hardly have childhood photos with my mom…)

My video calls with my mom usually happen at 9:30 a.m. Beijing time, which is 5:30 p.m. where I am. In the background, there’s often the opening theme of the evening news my dad is watching, or my brother shouting something from his video game.

Today is no different.

“Did you eat?”
“Yeah.”
“What did you eat?”
“Stir-fried something.”
“It’s getting cold. Wear something thicker.”
“I am.”

I stare at my own face in the corner of the screen and notice my bangs have grown out. I should get a haircut.

My mom leans closer to the camera. “Did you lose weight?”
“No. Same as usual.”

Then there are three seconds of silence. Not long, not short. Just long enough for me to swallow the sentence that had reached my tongue.

What I want to say is: Math was so hard today. Those application questions are written in long, meaningless English paragraphs, and by the time I reach the end, I don’t even know what the keywords are.

I also want to say: Two people got into a fight in the cafeteria today, and it was louder than it needed to be.
I want to say: I’ve realized I’m getting slower at cursing in Chinese.
I want to say: Sometimes I feel like I’m slowly becoming someone who talks less.

But the words circle at the tip of my tongue and retreat.

I realize I can’t say them to the face on the screen. Behind my mom is the TV cabinet at home. On it sits the birthday card I mailed back last year. She just dyed her hair; it’s a little too black, probably from some random salon.

It wasn’t like this before.

Back when I was home, I never had to prepare these words. Maybe she’d be chopping vegetables while I leaned against the kitchen doorway. Maybe she’d be lying on my bed scrolling on her phone while I pretended to do homework. Maybe she’d be riding her bike and I’d sit behind her, holding the back of her jacket.

The words would just spill out, like turning on a faucet.

“Our Chinese teacher’s hairstyle today was hilarious. It looked like she was wearing a fake wig.”
“You know that couple in my class who swore they’d never break up? They broke up. I told you they wouldn’t last.”
“The cafeteria made tomato scrambled eggs sweet today. Who puts sugar in that?”

My mom wouldn’t even look at me. She’d just respond with “Mm,” or “Oh,” or “Really?” Sometimes she’d add, “You don’t even like eggs. Why are you complaining about sugar?”

None of those conversations were serious. But not having them feels like leaving something unfinished.

I tried calling her about those things at first. When I had just arrived abroad, I called every week and reported everything in detail. But saying those things over the phone always felt slightly wrong. She would listen carefully. She would ask, “And then?” But when I finished, there would be a small pause.

That pause made me realize those words were never meant to be responded to. They just needed someone nearby—someone busy doing something else—listening.

Phone calls don’t work.
Video doesn’t either.

The screen enlarges every silence, turning it into something that needs to be filled.

So gradually, our calls became about only three things: the weather, my grades, and whether I’m safe. After that, we run out of things to say.

One night, I was eating takeout in my bedroom. Sushi again. The only sound was me chewing.

Halfway through, I suddenly said out loud, “Why is math so hard? I don’t even want to read the questions anymore.”

My voice bounced off the walls. No one answered.

I kept eating. As I packed the leftovers away, I realized something that made me laugh. When I said that sentence, I was speaking Chinese—but my speed and tone sounded exactly like how I complain in English at school.

I started sending voice messages to my brother. He’s four years younger than me. Even though we live in the same house, we’re both too lazy to walk into each other’s rooms. I sent him, “The cafeteria soup today tasted like dishwater.” He replied with a vomiting emoji.

We didn’t talk much when we were younger. Back then, our conversations were mostly “Where’s mom?” “Don’t know.” “Pass me that.” “Get it yourself.” Now I’ve become the one sending him meaningless daily updates.

Sometimes I wonder where all those little conversations went. They still rise in my head every day, like bubbles. Most of them I let burst on their own. A few I record as voice notes. Sometimes I say them out loud to the air while cutting vegetables.

Last week was my mom’s birthday. I sent her a long message about what I’ve learned this year abroad and how grateful I am. She replied: “You’ve grown up.”

But what I really wanted to say was: Mom, I miss you. I want to ramble about homework and gossip again.

I didn’t write any of that.

I don’t know how to say it. I don’t know if, after I say it, she would respond the way she used to in the kitchen—without turning around, just a simple “Mm.”

Last night, I was scrolling in bed and saw a funny cat video. Instinctively, I wanted to send it to her.

I opened our chat. The last message was still “You’ve grown up.”

I stared at those three words for a while.

Then I sent the video to my brother instead.

He replied with two laughing-crying emojis.

I locked my phone. The room grew quiet. Outside, the sky wasn’t fully dark yet; the light was still pale.

I suddenly missed that kind of conversation—the kind that doesn’t need explanation, doesn’t need buildup, doesn’t need a reply.

The kind where your words are caught before they even finish.

I flipped my phone over and placed it beside my pillow.

It’s almost 5:30.