That evening in the Bay Area, the sky felt heavy, clouds pressed low, like rain had been waiting for days to fall.
Driving alone to buy groceries, Spotify played an old song — “You Forgot How Beautiful You Are.”
I'd always loved it, but that day I really looked at the cover:
A woman from the late 80s or 90s, short bangs, hair tucked behind her ears, a blue polyester T-shirt. White lace on the table, teacups, a wall calendar with a smiling celebrity from that era, and a man lying on the bed reading a newspaper.
She sat with one leg up on the chair, staring blankly in the mirror, putting on lipstick.
It was like a painting — time frozen.
And that woman looked just like my mom.
My mom was beautiful when she was young, people said she looked like Teresa Teng. She loved to sing, even competed once. Our cassette player at home used to play music all the time. I still remember one lyric: “Snowflakes fall and fall…”
But later, she stopped singing. She tied her hair back simply, always in a hurry.
Mom, you forgot how beautiful you are.
I don't know when you forgot.
I remember the scar on her belly — long, twisted, with tiny cross stitches, like thread pulling through fabric. It's longer than my hand.
As a child, I would stare at it, feeling both fear and guilt.
Because of me, she carried this scar.
One day I asked, “Do you regret it?”
She smiled: “No. Having a child is just part of life experience. Without it, I wouldn't have had the mother-daughter journey with you. Without it, there would be no you.”
That moment I understood:
The scar is our deepest connection. It gave life. It is the most beautiful scar in the world.
Mom, you may have forgotten,
but I always remember how beautiful you are. ❤️