Eight years ago, I lost the only family I had left in this world. My mother lay alone on a cold slab.
When Jack arrived at the morgue and saw me, his eyes immediately reddened.
He knelt on the ground, holding me as I sobbed uncontrollably.
“You still have me. You’re not alone!” he said.
The harsh fluorescent lights cast a cold glow on him, but his expression was so earnest.
There were tears in his eyes, and his words felt sincere.
Even in the coldness of the morgue, I could feel the faint warmth of comfort.
At that time, both of us were dirt poor. We worked endless part-time jobs just to scrape together enough money to buy a small plot for my mother’s grave.
The house my mother left me was tiny. When she was alive, I shared a bed with her. It never felt cramped.
But after she passed away and I saved up money by taking in a tenant – Jack – we had to split the bed into two single ones, with a curtain drawn between them for some privacy.
We lived frugally for an entire year before we could afford to buy a small piece of land for my mother in this vast city.
On the day of her burial, I knelt by her grave, crying and apologizing for leaving her in that cold place for a whole year.