It was one of the coldest days of the snowy season. We had seen the world covered with white in almost a month. The rivers were frozen. Wild animals had stopped wandering around. The small village was resting in silence. Had we not prepared enough firewood in advance we wouldn’t have made it through the nights. It was on this day that I learned the true lesson of sharing and witnessed the best miracle I have ever seen in my life.

I was in the kitchen making lunch for the family when I saw my six-year-old son, Billy, walking toward the woods. I could only see his back. He wasn’t walking with his usual steps. He was obviously walking with great effort, trying to be as still as possible. Minutes after he disappeared into the woods, he came running out again, toward the house. I went back to make sandwiches, thinking that whatever he had been doing was completed. Moments later, however, he was once again walking in that slow purposeful long step toward the woods. This activity went on for half an hour: walking cautiously to the woods, then running back to the house. Finally, my curiosity got the best of me. I crept out of the house and followed him secretly on his journey.

He was taking something in his arms as he walked; being very careful not to trip and fall. I stepped close as he went into the woods. Branches and thorns (荆棘) slapped his little face but he did not try to avoid them. He might have a much greater purpose, I thought. As 1 came closer, I saw the most amazing sight. Several little cats curled up beneath a huge fallen tree, where there was no snow but the least space for any life to survive the severe winter. Billy walked right up to them, at the sight of which I almost screamed for him to stop what he was doing. He had piled up a stack of firewood next to the kittens and was about to light it with a match! He had no idea what the fire would cause at the hands of a six-year-old.

My sudden voice obviously took Billy by surprise.

Billy agreed to collect up the firewood after I decided to take them in.

My father, Michael, led me through the little wooden house he’d filled with his paintings. “When I have an exhibition ...” he began, pointing to the artworks he’d created, before stopping. “Poor Pa,” I thought. In 1994 he got Parkinson’s Disease (帕金森氏病), which had shocked the whole family as he was only in his forties.

A husband and father to three, Pa had had a successful career running an advertising agency and had always been extremely creative. Outside of work, he’d spent 15 years fronting the cover band, Musical Chairs, which performed at the pub in Sydney’s Double Bay each week and, when I became a mother, he developed a very close bond with my daughter.

Even when his Parkinson’s advanced, my father decided he wanted to paint. “Why don’t you try classes?”my mum Louisa suggested to him. He agreed. In art lessons, the class practised painting still life objects, like pears, but my father had other ideas for his inspiration. He began producing abstract pieces, inspired by his favourite artist, Jackson Pollock, a leading abstract expressionist. “Why abstract?” I asked him. “Because,” he replied,“it helps us to see the world around us in a different way. You can look at these paintings and ask ‘what if?’”

Soon, I realized he was right. When I observed my father’s work, I could interpret each of them in many ways. Once he got started, he showed no signs of slowing down. The little house was quickly filled with more and more works.

But in 2019, Pa developed cancer and was given just three months to live. The thought of losing him was too much for any of my family to accept, but we soon received great news that a new form of treatment can help him greatly. Since he continued speaking about wanting to share his paintings with the world, I knew what had to be done.

Mother’s Day fell on May 14th this year.