"Mother, should you really be washing our clothes now?" I couldn't help but speak up, my voice tight with worry as I pouted, trailing behind her. She simply ushered me back toward my room with that familiar gentle no-nonsense look.
I hated the smell of the dirty clothes, sure, but more than that, I hated the idea of my mother braving the icy water and cold air, risking cracked skin, frostbitten fingers, or worse, all for a pile of laundry.
"Don't worry about me," she said gently, glancing over her shoulder. Her voice was calm, but she already knew exactly what I was thinking. "The weather's not at its coldest yet. It's better to get this done now than wait until winter sets in properly."
As she spoke, she reached out and patted my head, an affectionate gesture, still I wasn't pleased with the fact that my mother still insisted. She was thin, weak, but she's hardheaded with things like this.
Of course, I knew she was right. Still… I didn't like it.
"I need to wash our clothes now so I can mend them better before the cold hits," she added, her fingers already busy sorting the garments. "If I don't clean them properly, the fabric will fray faster. And once winter comes, we'll need every layer we have."
Her explanation made sense. All of it made sense. But even so, I couldn't shake the feeling of helplessness. Just because something made sense didn't mean it sat any easier in my heart.
I sighed, a little puff of breath escaping me as I sat back down.
"Mother! We've gathered all the clothes, let's go to the well before lunch!" My brothers' voices called from outside—Yubing's voice especially loud and eager.
In response, my mother made a soft sound of affirmation, already gathering the bundled clothes into her arms.
"We'll be going now," she said, glancing my way with a warm smile. "Rest some more, and we'll be back soon."
I pursed my lips.
"After I've rested a bit… could I take a short walk?" I asked carefully, watching her expression. "I want to gather some firewood. Just around the edges of the forest."
I wasn't good at being idle, not when my limbs weren't aching and my body had finally begun to feel normal again. The thought of simply lying there while they worked made my skin itch with guilt.
Besides, I was already fine. More or less.
My mother instantly frowned, the crease between her brows deepening as she turned to face me.
"Lan'er, you—" It was clear from her tone that she intended to stop me before I even finished that thought.
"I know it's dangerous," I said quickly, cutting her off before she could go further. "But I won't even step into the forest. I'll stay near the edges—just picking up some dried sticks to bring home. That's all."
"That can't be right," she said sharply, shaking her head with conviction. "Even near the edge, it's not always safe."
Her eyes scanned my face, searching for cracks in my confidence. I met her gaze steadily, even as my chest tightened a little.
"Mother…" I began softly, my voice thick with something I wasn't sure I wanted to name. "I can't stand being idle for long. Now that I'm feeling better, just lying around makes me feel even more useless."
I lowered my eyes. "I just want to walk a little. Drink in the scenery. Let the cold wind hit my face and remind me I'm still here."
Seeing the expression on my face, my mother's resolve began to waver. She looked at me for a long moment, and then, as always, she softened.
She sighed, the sound weary but gentle, like someone making peace with something they didn't want to accept but couldn't fight any longer.
"Alright," she said at last, brushing a stray hair behind my ear. "But only if you promise to be careful. No wandering, no going too deep. And no more than an hour, do you hear me?"
I lit up, relief blooming in my chest like early spring.
"I hear you!" I nodded quickly, a bit too eagerly. "Of course! I'll be back before you even notice I'm gone."
She gave me a look that said she would absolutely notice, every minute of it. Still, she didn't argue further.
It wasn't long before my mother and brothers set off, their voices gradually fading as they disappeared down the road. The moment I could no longer hear them, no more footsteps lingering near the door—I sprang to my feet like a prisoner granted parole.
Rest? How could I possibly rest when I was already back to normal? My body felt fine, not a hint of the weakness from before. Sitting around pretending to be fragile was pure torture.
Of course I bet that my mother could see that I was perfectly fine, however a mother does what a mother does best. And that was of course worry, and worry, and worry some more.
I reached for the slippers tucked neatly by the door. Woven from tightly bound grass, rough but sturdy.
My father had made them for me with his own hands, each braid laced with quiet care. I hadn't had many chances to wear them outside, so they still looked almost new, the woven edges barely frayed, the color not yet dulled by dirt or time.
They were a bit itchy, sure, grass wasn't exactly known for comfort, but it was a small price to pay. I wiggled my toes into them, adjusting to the texture with a little wince. Still, I could manage.
In the back of my mind, I idly wondered if I could eventually make something more comfortable. Something softer than grass, maybe lined with cloth or animal hide.
If I remembered correctly, my mother had always been skilled with her hands, good with needlework and crafts, even if she rarely had the time to indulge in them.