At 10:30 PM, I sat in the duty room, the self-criticism on my desk at the thir… · @Holmessamu28041 · TwKit

@Holmessamu28041

At 10:30 PM, I sat in the duty room, the self-criticism on my desk at the third line. The intercom rang; the lights in the dormitory across the way were still on. The instructor answered. He said, "Xiaoman is gone, from the sixth floor." Xiaoman was my classmate. Last month, she misfiled a record, received a reprimand, and wrote a self-criticism—that was all. We both came from the same orphanage, three years apart. I always tell people we're alive today because we're both tough. That doesn't hold up, because I've seen too many tough people—some get lost, some drop out, and in the end, all that's left is toughness. I have something Xiaoman doesn't. In my second year of junior high, I lost a pair of gloves issued by the orphanage. The instructor wanted to punish me by making me copy the orphanage rules. My mother, who later became my foster mother, knitted a pair overnight, and the next day, she carried them to school, saying, "It's okay if you lost them, just don't let your hands get cold." She hugged me; the sweater smelled of laundry detergent. I've told this story twenty times, turned it into my protective charm. Tonight, I went home to get my draft self-criticism. While rummaging through the drawer, an old envelope fell out. It was from my mother. Inside was a note, which I'd kept after she left. The note was in her handwriting: "Mom went to talk to the instructor about the gloves, saying the family urgently needed the children to go home for winter, so the punishment should be on Mom, so the children wouldn't be frightened." I stood there holding the note for a long time. The clock in the duty room struck eleven. So, the story of those gloves I knitted overnight was something I added myself later. She didn't knit anything. She just walked into the instructor's office, sat down, and took this mistake away from me—once, twice, and many times I didn't know about. Xiaoman doesn't have this person. She always had to carry her own mistakes in her arms until she couldn't carry them anymore. I put the note back in the envelope, and put the envelope back in the deepest part of the drawer, next to the gloves I actually bought myself later. The self-criticism was still lying on the table, with the third line left blank. #PerfisVerificados #Conect #TaNaHoraDeConectar

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