A story about $5 scarves, emotional inheritance, and the sharp moments that wake us up.
It was hot. Heavy, humid, sticky July Taipei heat.
I was sweating and in my dad’s bedroom trying to photograph some scarves my mum had kept from decades ago, souvenirs from when she used to travel to Europe, back when she was still willing to spend money on her own leisure.
They looked elegant from a distance.
But up close: faint stains, tiny snags. Polyester pretending to be silk.
I laid them on a plain fabric I thought might look classy. They just looked cheap.
I felt the frustration rising.
First at the photos.
Then at myself.
Why am I even doing this?
Why can’t I take a decent shot?
Why am I here, trying to sell old scarves for five dollars?
Meanwhile, my mum sat scrolling on her phone, barely looking up.
At one point, she said:
“不然就留着嘛。”
Maybe we should just keep them, then.
And I snapped.
“Keep them? Keep them in your coffin??”
“留？留在你棺材裡嗎？”
It came out too sharp.
Too fast. Too loud. Too cruel.
The guilt hit.
But underneath it, something colder:
Shame. And horror.
Because in that moment,
I saw something I didn’t want to see:
Me,
taking on someone else’s mess.
Trying to make meaning out of old stuff no one wants.
Trying to squeeze value out of things that already belong to the past.
Just like I’ve seen my dad do.
Just like I’ve watched my mum avoid.
I hated seeing it.
But I couldn’t unsee it.
I used to think that moving away, living differently, and becoming “my own person” would protect me from becoming my parents.
But, it turns out, distance doesn’t dissolve the patterns.
Proximity just reveals them more clearly.
And that’s the gift. Not comfort, but clarity.
Because once you see it, you get to choose what to carry forward, and what to finally put down.
Seeing clearly isn’t comfortable — but it’s the only way to choose something different.
I’m still learning. But I’m starting to see what I want to carry forward, and what I’m finally ready to put down.
