The Debts on My Birthday

On my twentieth birthday, sunlight lit up the dust atop the wardrobe. As I stood on the stool to reach the velvet box, my fingertips burned with heat. The pearl button brushed my fingertip—soft, delicate—like how Mary Lewis used to ruffle my hair six months ago. That day, passing the digital store, I couldn't tear my eyes away from the white Polaroid camera in the glass cabinet. She smiled and said, "Nina, your coming-of-age gift will be a surprise—I promise it's exactly what you want most." Gripping the hem of her blouse, I asked, "Really? Mom, if I get the Polaroid camera, the very first picture I take will be of you cooking." She nodded, the light in her eyes seemingly brighter than the camera in the cabinet: "Alright." The moment my fingers lifted the box lid, I could almost hear the ‘click' of the Polaroid ejecting a photo. But nestled in the velvet lining was not a camera, but a stack of papers fastened with silver paper clips, and scrawled boldly in ink at the very center of the top sheet were the word "IOU," stabbing sharply into my eyes. The smile on my face froze; the corners of my mouth still curled upward, but my heart felt clenched by a cold hand, making every breath heavy. "Mom, what is this?" I turned around and saw Mary Lewis standing in the doorway, her hands twisting the apron, her eyes stealing a glance at the box before quickly looking away. She walked over and pulled out the top IOU, pinching the edge of the paper as if afraid to dirty it. "Nina, take a look first. I had no other choice." I took the IOU, my fingertip brushing the yellowed edge. The date was thirteen years ago. The borrower was 'Mary Lewis', the amount one hundred thousand, and in the note: ‘Borrowed from Linda Warren, to fight for Nina Carter's custody.' Suddenly, it dragged me back to the winter when I was five. When I was five, I would always hide behind my bedroom door, listening to the quarrels in the living room. That day, Mary Lewis sat on the floor crying, clutching a family portrait I had drawn, shouting into the phone, "I'd sell everything I own rather than let Andy Carter take Nina away! She's been in my womb for ten months!" On the other end of the line was Linda Warren's gentle voice, coaxing, "Mary, Andy Carter has good prospects. Nina will wear beautiful dresses with him. Don't be so stubborn." "Can a pretty dress replace a mother?" Mary Lewis's voice rose sharply, "I borrowed that hundred thousand. As long as I can keep Nina, I'm willing to do anything." I pressed my face against the cold door, tears falling onto the carpet and spreading into a small, damp stain. Later, she hung up the phone and came over to hug me, her chin resting gently on the top of my head: "Nina, you'll always be with me, okay?" I nodded, clutching the hem of her shirt, whispering, "Okay, I'll always be with you." Back then, I truly believed she was the person in the world who loved me most. But now, staring at the IOU in my hand, my heart twisted: "Mom, why are you only telling me about a debt from thirteen years ago now?" Mary Lewis sighed, wiped the corner of her eye, and the callouses on her fingertip brushed against the back of my hand—I had always thought they came from her hard work: "Nina, I didn't want you to worry when you were little. I always thought I'd tell you when you were grown and strong enough to bear it." She pulled out another stack of papers from the box: three credit card statements totaling 180,000, each with penciled notes on the back reading "Nina Carter's annual fees for piano, dance, and Math Olympiad class." Seeing the word "Piano," my fingertips suddenly curled inwards, as if the chill from that winter nine years ago had wrapped itself around me once again. I was eight that year, and every day after school, I had to practice piano for two hours; my fingertips would redden, and the pain lingered even with bandages. One night, after I hit a wrong note, Mary Lewis suddenly burst in and swept the sheet music onto the floor. Sheets of paper lay scattered across the floor, like snowflakes blown down by the wind. "You play so terribly, you might as well join the Math Olympiad class!" she snapped, pointing at my nose, her voice blazing with anger. "Will piano lessons get you into a top elementary school? The Math Olympiad class costs thirty thousand a year. If you don't pass, that money's wasted!" I crouched down to gather the sheet music, tears falling onto the piano keys, mingling with the fingerprints I hadn't wiped away, staining the white keys grimy. I whispered, "Mom, I love the piano. Could I practice for just ten more minutes? Ten minutes, please." "How many Olympiad math problems can you solve in ten minutes?" She bent down and pulled me close. "If your father were here, he'd have already scolded you! He divorced me because he thought I wasn't educated enough. Do you want to end up like me?" I didn't dare say another word and could only follow her to the desk, opening the Olympiad math problem book. It turned out that all those things I once believed were "for my own good" had long been recorded by her—each marked with a price on a bill.