“What happens if you say no?”
The young woman didn’t answer immediately. Her short hair was neatly combed, and her attire was simple yet elegant.
Her hands clutched a tissue—tightly.
It was the same tissue she had picked up from the small table in front of her just moments ago.
A silence settled in. Only the occasional hum of the air conditioner could be heard, mingling with the soft sound of the diffuser in the corner. The gentle scent of chamomile and lavender helped her body relax a little.
She lowered her head; her hair swayed slightly as the cool air from the AC blew toward her. She looked at the tissue in her hands as though the answer had been folded into it.
"People..."
She stopped.
"...don't stay."
“Who is the first person you’re most afraid will leave?”
Fragments of memories began to surface in her mind.
She was five years old at the time. She knew her mother’s moods by heart. Whenever her mother suddenly hugged her tightly, she knew exactly what would follow...
Her mother would sob, pouring out her heart—venting all the grievances she kept to herself, sharing them only with her only daughter.
Complaints about a harsh boss who piled on a workload meant for three people but demanded it be finished in no time at all.
Complaints about her husband, who constantly ordered her to do this and that—as if his own hands and feet were merely for show, incapable of doing a single thing.
At school, her teachers always praised her.
“She is such a mature child.”
“You're going to make your parents proud someday.”
In the evenings at home, she would wash piles of dirty dishes and cookware. Her mother would keep her company, grumbling all the while.
His father?
He was engrossed in watching TV in the living room.
“Your father... he just leaves his plate in the kitchen after eating.”
“He expects me to brew his coffee.”
“And after he drinks it, he just leaves the glass sitting on the table.” “And there’s that cigarette butt, just tossed aside carelessly.”
“Aaaarrrgggg….!!!”
As always, she would pause her dishwashing for a moment, wipe her hands, and grab a tissue from the dining table.
Then, with her tiny hands, she would wipe her mother's tears, alternately gently rubbing her mother's left and right cheeks. Then hugged her.
Then her mother hugged her back. Her T-shirt began to get wet. She didn't yet understand why adults cried so much.
Then his mother said,
"Don't tell anyone what Mommy told you."
The five-year-old nodded immediately.
Even though...
She didn't even know what "secret" meant yet.
When she was thirteen, her mother suddenly fell critically ill. Her body burned with a high fever, and she even lost consciousness. After receiving treatment, her condition gradually improved, but she lost the ability to move her lower body.
Before leaving for school and after returning home, she would always change her mother’s diaper, cook for her, and feed her.
Not once did she complain. She performed these tasks as if they were simply part of her daily routine.
In the late afternoon, when her father returned from work, she would stop sweeping the yard to make him coffee. Upon arriving home, her father would sit on the bamboo chair on the porch, enjoying a cup of coffee while he smoked.
The aroma of freshly brewed coffee was immediately noticeable as she brought it out to her father on the porch.
Thin wisps of steam rose from her father's favourite glass coffee mug.
“Good girl,” her father would say, stroking her hair.
Just two words. Yet those two words became an emotional drug that defined her life—because whenever she was useful...
She was praised.
Not once did his father ask,
"How was school today?"
"Have you eaten?"
Since childhood, she had always heard people say:
“You’re such a good girl.”
“Your mother is so lucky to have you.”
“You never cause any trouble.”
But no one ever said,
"She's still a child."
Back in the therapy room.
“When did you first take responsibility for your mother’s feelings?”
A woman in her mid-forties asked. She wore simple, neutral-colored clothing, and her hair was tied back neatly.
“I don’t know.”
“Take your time.”
There was no judgment in her gaze.
Her eyes were calm—not because she held all the answers, but because she was accustomed to sitting with people who were struggling to find their own.
The woman was about to answer.
Then she stopped.
Because she had just realized...
The answer wasn't ten years.
Not seven years.
Not six years, either.
Five.
Yes, since the age of five.
And, for the first time, she felt that the phrase she had always taken as a compliment sounded like a punishment.
“You’ve always been a good girl.”
Silence returned to the room.
"If that five-year-old girl walked into this room today, what would she need?" the therapist asked.
She pictured that little girl.
Her feet didn't yet reach the floor when she sat.
Still wearing a white kindergarten uniform with an orange plaid skirt, her hair in pigtails.
Still believing that all adults knew what they were doing.
She remained silent for a long time.
Tears trickled down slowly. Her shoulders shook as she wept. For the first time, she wiped away her tears with the tissue she had been clutching all along.
Then she said,
"An adult."
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