A/N:

Confession: The follwing short story is from my Chinese textbook. Yes I repeat, from my Chinese textbook. School never fails to surprise me. It's all translated by me (so proud of my Chinese). Enjoy!

The year my eldest brother passed away, my mother was 70.

In order to not let the weak old lady to be overcome with grief, the four of us made an agreement after much disscussion — we would keep this harsh truth from her. Since Big Brother had passed away in a foreign land and he usually only returned home for reunion dinner with Mother and us once a year, we thought that Mother would not notice the odditities of the situation.

We thought.

It wasn't a long time before Mother began asking everyday, a hundred times, a thousand times, about why Big Brother was taking such a long time to return home to visit her. And thus, it began the long and tired journey of finding reasons to fill up her relentless questions.

We told her that Big Brother's health was not at its best state. We told her that it was because of him being too caught up with work. We told her that his house was too far. We even went as far as assuming Big Brother's identity and sending letters home, then reading them to comfort Mother.

At first, our plans went smoothly. Mother was not young and nimble anymore, so as expected, her mind and reactions were not as clear. 

However as time stretched unbearingly thin, all our efforts little by little, became futile.

Mother's initial acceptance turned into a frantic worry as she started begging us, sometimes even crying, to let her take the train to see Big Brother. It was impossible to say any other words when I saw Mother in that state. It hurt.

In the end, we only could use her old age as an argument to keep her at home. 

A few months later, the cold and biting winter had arrived. My husband's company had successfully set up its headquarters in Beijing, and I was more than enthusiastic to go over to help him. Before I left, Mother stopped me, her voice calling out softly from her room.

Very silently, she then drew out an old but familiar piece of clothing from under her pillow. As I searched through my memory, I soon came to realise that the article of cloth was an old woolen sweater which belonged to my deceased father.

A little confused, I looked up at Mother.

She said in a frail tone, "When you go to Beijing you must pay Big Brother a visit, and pass him this woolen sweater. Among all of you brothers and sisters, he was the one who bore the most pain and weariness. He is also the one who hasn't seen me for the longest time." Sighing, her hands went limp as she placed them on her lap with the neatly folded sweater.

"It must be his illness again. He hasn't been home for two years..."

A surge of mixed feelings hit my chest as I stood there watching Mother. Very gently, I pulled the sweater out of her grip, though not without a hint of shakiness. All of a sudden, Mother's longing for Big Brother gave me a strange but warm idea.

Big Brother had not really passed away — he had only gone to a more beautiful place, and there, we would all one day meet again.

From that day on, Mother never mentioned anything about Big Brother. Slowly, with new reverence, I finally could understand Mother's thin smile. I finally could talk to her about Father and Big Brother at ease.

Maybe she had not known of Big Brother's death, or maybe she did, but it did not matter anymore. Now I know that the ones whom we truly love never fade away, now I know that true love could not be forgotten, and now I know that a mother's love is eternal.

Four years later, Mother left us. 

At her deathbed, she held all our hands with infinite joy and smiled warmly at us.

"Until then, my children."