My parents have always been proud of me. When I was young, I excelled in school and was quite pretty. Whenever my parents took me out, they'd always receive a flood of compliments and envy. Whenever someone exclaimed in amazement, "Oh, Old Wu, so this is your son! What a handsome boy! How's his schoolwork? What, he's been a top student every year? That's remarkable!"At such moments, my father would stroke my head with pride, his hunched back straightening proudly. Every wrinkle on my mother's face would smooth out. Later, when I went to university, I'd call them monthly for living expenses with righteous confidence—after all, I'd made them overnight celebrities.From the moment I received that prestigious university acceptance letter, my parents ceased to be just faceless workers in a factory of thousands. Mention their names, and people would say, "Oh, I know them—they have a son studying in Beijing." Later, I joined a foreign company. Though just an ordinary clerk, the occasional use of terms like MBA and GDP in my speech filled my parents' eyes with awe.While other people's children faced layoffs or unemployment, my son was earning dollars. Ah, my father and mother—how could they not be proud? I had become the head of the household. Whenever something came up at home, my parents would call me first to seek my opinion. Even if they disagreed with my suggestions, they would only quietly voice their own views.When I'd sneer at them for being old-fashioned, narrow-minded, or narrow-minded, they'd immediately agree, "Listen to our son, listen to our son. He's seen more of the world than we have, he knows better than us." I never thought anything of it. I rarely mentioned my parents to my colleagues. They were so ordinary, just humble workers at the bottom of this bustling city.Forget being proud of them—sometimes I even resented being born into such a family. If my parents were high-ranking officials or billionaires like Li Ka-shing, I wouldn't hesitate to talk about them and would naturally be proud. That is, until a new colleague joined our office. He frequently spoke of his mother with palpable pride.He described her as beautiful, capable, and skilled at singing lovely mountain ballads... We all knew he came from the countryside, yet through his words, the image of a typical rural grandmother faded, replaced by a vision of a beautiful peasant woman like Li Shuangshuang. One day, he invited us to his home for dinner because his mother was visiting. When we met her, I couldn't help but inwardly scoff—this guy really knows how to exaggerate.His mother, however, was a dark, thin, shriveled old woman, like a dried-up date. Seeing us arrive, she mumbled a greeting before retreating into the kitchen. My colleague pulled her out and introduced us one by one: "This is Little Li, this is Sister Wang."She smiled awkwardly, but my colleague kept hugging her affectionately, calling her "Mom" and asking us, "Isn't my mom beautiful? Isn't her cooking delicious?" We felt like we were chewing wax, just mumbling in agreement. My colleague noticed our skepticism. While his mother washed the dishes, he told us that in his eyes, his mother was the most beautiful woman in the world, and he was proud of her."You don't understand," he continued. "She was widowed young. Life in the countryside is brutal for a single woman. Yet she never relied on charity. She worked her fingers to the bone to put me through college. I never heard her complain about hardship or exhaustion. I'm proud to have a mother like her."We all fell silent at once. Perhaps in that moment, each of us thought of our own parents, of our unreasonable complaints—complaints born solely from their inability to buy us a house, fund our business ventures, or secure us a good job.We took it for granted that we were our parents' pride, that we brought honor to them. But when did we ever think to be proud of having parents like them? That night, I didn't return to my rented room. Instead, I went back to my parents' home. After starting work, I had disdained their house as dirty, messy, and poorly lit, choosing to rent my own place outside.Seeing me return, my mother excitedly offered to make me a late-night snack while my father went to heat water for my feet. My eyes welled up. In my youthful arrogance and empty boasts, I'd spouted grand theories daily, looking down on my aging parents. I took it for granted they should be proud of having such an "ambitious" son like me, never once considering how earnestly and diligently they lived their lives.How generous and forgiving they had been toward me. Reflecting on it now, I realize how shallow I truly was. I am my parents' pride—but aren't they also mine?
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