The phone rang at three in the morning.
Song Qingci had fallen asleep at her door-plank desk, still clutching her pen. When her phone vibrated, the pen dropped to the floor with a loud clatter.
She looked at the caller ID—New York-Presbyterian Hospital.
She answered. The nurse's voice was urgent: "Ms. Song, your mother's condition has suddenly worsened. Please come immediately."
She didn't have time to change. Still in her olive green secondhand coat, she rushed out of the basement. Queens was bitterly cold in the early morning. No taxis on the street. She ran six blocks before she finally flagged one down.
When she arrived at the hospital, her mother had already been moved to the ICU.
The attending physician waited at the door, his expression grave.
"The cancer has spread to her liver and lungs. Further treatment is no longer meaningful. We recommend… letting her go peacefully."
Song Qingci stood at the ICU door, listening to the beeping of the monitors inside.
"Can I go in?"
"Yes. But there isn't much time."
She pushed the door open.
Her mother lay on the bed, thin as paper. Her hair had all fallen out from the chemotherapy; her head was wrapped in a faded floral headscarf—the one Song Qingci had bought at a Chinese supermarket last year, two dollars each.
"Mom." She sat beside the bed and took her mother's hand.
Her mother's hand was cold, her knuckles prominent, the back of her hand bruised with needle marks.
Her mother opened her eyes. The moment she saw Song Qingci, light returned to her clouded gaze.
"Qingci…"
"Mom, I'm here."
"You've lost weight." Her mother's fingers moved slightly, wanting to touch her face but unable to lift them. Song Qingci pressed her mother's hand against her cheek.
"I haven't lost weight. If anything, I've gained."
"Liar." Her mother smiled, a weak smile. "You were never good at lying."
Song Qingci bit her lip, refusing to let the tears fall.
"Mom, you'll get better. The doctor said after another round—"
"Qingci." Her mother interrupted her, her voice soft but lucid. "I'm not foolish. I know I'm leaving."
"No, you're not—"
"Listen to me." Her mother's fingers brushed lightly against her cheek, wiping away the tear she hadn't been able to hold back.
"In this life, the one I've wronged most is you. Your father died so early. I brought you to America alone, never gave you a single good day. When you finally got married, I thought you'd be okay, but…"
She paused to catch her breath, her chest heaving.
"But I knew you weren't happy."
"Mom—"
"That man. Lu Yan." When she spoke his name, there was a coldness in her voice Song Qingci had never heard before. "He wasn't good to you, was he?"
Song Qingci shook her head. "No, he—"
"The scar on your hand." Her mother looked down at her hand. "That's a burn. How did you burn it? You never said, so I never asked. But I knew it wasn't your own doing."
It was the winter when Lu Yan's stomach condition had flared up. She'd run across the city to get his medicine, slipped on the ice on her way back, spilled the medicine. She'd reached for it, scalding her hand with the hot liquid. She didn't make a sound. She went home, rinsed it with cold water herself. The next day, blisters formed. She covered them with bandages and continued making his porridge.
Lu Yan never knew. He never asked.
"Qingci," her mother tightened her grip, "promise me one thing."
"Mom, anything."
"Leave him."
Song Qingci froze.
"I know you married him to pay for my treatment. This has weighed on my heart. If it weren't for my illness, you wouldn't have had to beg him, wouldn't have signed that contract, wouldn't have endured so much."
"Mom, I didn't endure—"
"You did." Her mother's voice suddenly grew louder, as if mustering all her strength. "All your life, you've shouldered everything alone. You never say anything, but I can see it. Your eyes used to smile. They don't anymore."
Song Qingci's tears finally broke through. She laid her head on the bed, her shoulders shaking.
"Promise me," her mother's hand rested on her head, gently stroking her hair as she had when Song Qingci was little, "leave him. Live well. I'll watch over you from above."
"Mom, don't say that—"
"Promise me."
Song Qingci lifted her head. Through her tears, she saw her mother's eyes, impossibly bright.
"I promise," she said. "I'll leave him. I'll live well."
Her mother smiled.
A real smile this time. The curve of her lips was exactly as Song Qingci remembered from childhood.
"Good." Her mother closed her eyes, her voice growing softer. "Good…"
The monitor changed.
The green line spiked wildly, then flattened.
"Mom? Mom!"
Doctors and nurses rushed in, pulling her away.
"Ms. Song, please wait outside—"
She was pushed into the hallway.
The door closed.
She stood in the hallway, hearing the doctors inside shouting "epinephrine," "defibrillate," "again."
Then silence.
The door opened. The attending physician stepped out and removed his mask.
"I'm sorry. We did everything we could."
Song Qingci leaned against the wall and slowly slid to the floor.
She didn't cry.
She just sat there, looking toward the end of the hallway. Dawn had broken. Sunlight streamed through the windows, falling at her feet.
A nurse brought her mother's belongings in a bag. The floral headscarf. A pair of wool socks. A photograph of her and her mother.
In the photo, she was eighteen, smiling with crescent-shaped eyes.
She pressed the photo to her chest.
Then she stood.
Her legs were weak, but she held herself upright.
She walked to the counter and took the death certificate.
The name: Song Qingci's mother, Chen Yulan. Time of death: 6:47 AM.
She signed her name.
Stroke by stroke, slow and steady.
She knew, from this moment, she was an orphan.
She walked out of the hospital and stood at the entrance.
The December wind in New York was cold, but the sun was bright. She tilted her face up, letting the light fall on it.
"Mom," she said softly, "I promise you. I'll live well. I'll stand in the brightest place. I'll make him understand—I'm not a stand-in, not someone's accessory. I am Song Qingci."
The wind stopped.
She lowered her head, folded the death certificate, and put it in her pocket.
In her pocket were her NYU student ID and a single coin.
She turned and walked into the sunlight.
Behind her, the hospital hallway was empty.
No one knew that a woman named Chen Yulan had left this world that morning. Her final act was to make her daughter promise—to leave the man who didn't love her.
It was the last thing she could do for her daughter.
The only thing.