The cool morning air was filled with the hustle and bustle (喧嚣忙碌) typical of a weekday. “Jordan! Julia!” I called out. “Get dressed right away—we’re late!”

It was another one of those mornings where everything could go wrong. I hadn’t been a single mom for all that long, but with the approach of the new year, I was filled with a renewed sense of optimism. This year, I thought, things would be different. We would be more organized, more on time, and less chaotic (混乱的). Or so was the plan.

Jordan, my thoughtful twelve-year-old, was the first to emerge from his room, looking slightly untidy but ready for the day. “Sorry, Mom,” he said in a low voice, adjusting his glasses. “I couldn’t find my science project.”

Julia, who was only eight years old, was not far behind. “I’m not wearing this!” she protested, holding up a dress I had laid out for her. “It’s a bit worn!”

I took a deep breath, trying to be patient. “Okay, quickly find something else. We really have to go!”

Breakfast was some piece of bread and milk, but somehow, we managed. As we rushed out the door, I couldn’t help but feel a bit defeated. Wasn’t the new year supposed to bring about change? Yet here we were, the same chaotic conditions, running late as ever.

In the car, Jordan broke the silence. “Mom, you’re doing great,” he said, a serious look in his eyes. It was moments like these that reminded me of the maturity he possessed beyond his years. Julia cut in, saying, “Yeah, Mom. We love you, even when we’re late.” Her words, though a bit simple and sincere, warmed my heart.

As I dropped them off at school, their cheerful goodbyes and “I love yous” filled me with a sense of purpose. Maybe it wasn’t about being perfect or having everything under control. Maybe it was about these moments of love and comfort, of overcoming daily obstacles (障碍) together.

Picking up the kids after school, I was greeted with their excited talking about their day.

“What’s the plan for tomorrow?” I asked them.

Having held the interschool storytelling championship for the past two years, I was the shining star of my school. When it came to choosing the right candidate to participate in such competitions, I was always the first choice. Naturally, I was once again selected to represent my school in the approaching contest this year.

Upon hearing the fact that I was chosen again, my classmates and friends acknowledged that I would undoubtedly emerge as the champion again. Consequently, I became conceited. I was so proud that I neglected the importance of practicing for the contest.

A week before the contest, my teacher Ms. Sara asked,“Selena, would you like to stand in front of the class to rehearse for the contest ?” She had tutored me in the past two competitions and knew how important practice was .“Just imagine you are on the stage in the presence of the audience, ”she added .

“ I’m sorry, Ms. Sara, ” I replied .“I have a bit of a sore throat.”

This was usually the lie I would tell whenever my teacher requested me to practice in front of the class. I always found excuses to avoid doing it because I believed that I was the best and therefore the practice was unnecessary. On one occasion, I even told Mrs. Sara not to worry too much as I was well prepared for the contest. In fact, I did everything but practice my scrip. I only managed to glance briefly through the story the day before the contest. As the best storyteller among the students of the local secondary schools, I was too

The contest was being held in the local community hall. On the day of the contest, the hall was packed.

Soon, it was my turn to talk.

Finally, results were announced after the contest.

Having been teaching anthropology (人类学) at Dartmouth College for 15 years, I still remember the day when I first encountered the book Margaret Mead’s Coming of Age in Samoa, a very important book on the study of the social and cultural development of peoples.

When I was fourteen, I earned money in the summer by cutting lawns, and within a few weeks I had built up a body of customers. I got to know people by the flowers they planted, by the things they lost in the grass or stuck in the ground on purpose. I learned something about the measure of my neighbors by their preferred method of payment: by the job, by the month—or not at all.

Mr. Ballou fell into the last category, and he always had a reason why. On one day, he had no change for a fifty, on another he was simply out when I knocked on his door. Still, except for the money, he was a nice enough old guy, always waving his hat when he’d seen me from a distance. Sure, I kept track of the total, but I didn’t worry about the amount too much.

Then, one late afternoon in mid-July, the hottest time of the year, I was walking by his house and he opened the door, mentioned me to come inside. The hall was cool, shaded, and it took my eyes a minute to adjust to the dim light.

“I owe you,” Mr. Ballou, “but...”

I thought I’d save him the trouble of thinking of a new excuse. “No problem. Don’t worry about it.”

“The bank made a mistake in my account,” he continued, ignoring my words. “It will be cleared up in a day or two. But in the meantime I thought perhaps you could choose one or two volumes for a down payment.”

He gestured toward the walls and I saw that books were stacked (堆放) everywhere. It was like a library, except with no order to the arrangement.

Mr. Ballou encouraged me to read, borrow or keep the books I like.

To this day, thirty years later, I clearly remember this experience.