I was desperate looking for a photo of Mum when she visited me in Christchurch.
I can still see her in my mind: sitting in the little Japanese garden outside this window, her hands shielding her head from the New Zealand sun, the light cutting across her face.
But the photo itself? Gone.
2019 was chaos: splitting a household in half, papers I didn’t want to read, the house on Montana Ave went up for sale. Somewhere in that mess, most of my photos disappeared too.
At the time, I was just trying to survive. I didn’t notice what held me up.
Only now, back in Taiwan, digging through old records, do I realise how much of that house was built on my mum’s quiet sacrifice — always saving for us, never spending on herself.
More than I ever saw back then.
Money I can’t repay.
Photos I can’t recover.
But the truth remains: she carried me through.
I don’t want to live the way she lived, quietly sacrificing herself. But I can’t deny her sacrifices shaped my life.
I’m learning to hold both: gratitude and frustration, love and conflict, but that’s where I am.
And yes, please remind me of this the next time I snap at her.
