The living room was unusually quiet. Not tense—just waiting.
Lian sat on the floor, textbooks open in front of him, half-heartedly pretending to study. His father was pacing by the window. His mother sat on the couch, her hands folded in her lap.
They were trying.
He could feel it.
But trying didn't make it easy.
His father stopped and cleared his throat. "I want to… I want to say something. In Mandarin."
Lian looked up, startled.
His mother's eyes flicked toward them, curious.
His father fumbled for a small notepad, one Lian recognized from his desk drawer. There were smudged pencil notes and pinyin scribbles across the page.
"Wǒ… xiǎng… xué," his father said slowly, pausing between each word.
Lian translated out loud, glancing at his mother: "I want to learn."
His mother blinked.
Then smiled—softly, hesitantly.
"Nǐ shuō de hěn hǎo," she said gently.
Lian felt something pinch behind his eyes.
"Can you… help me say more?" his father asked, turning to him.
Lian nodded, the weight of the moment pressing gently against his ribs.
His father handed him the notepad. "I want to tell her I'm sorry. But not just 'sorry.' I want to say… I should've listened more. And I didn't. And I know that hurt her."
Lian stared at the page. Then at his mother.
She was watching him, waiting.
He hesitated—just a second—but this time, he translated it truthfully. Not softened. Not sharpened. Just… honest.
When he finished, his mother sat very still.
Then she said something back. Not rushed. Not angry. Just full.
"Wǒ zhīdào," she said. "Wǒ zhǐshì xiǎng bèi lǐjiě, bùshì bèi bǎohù."
Lian translated it back slowly: "She says… she knows. And that she wanted to be understood. Not protected. Just seen."
His father sat down heavily on the armrest, like the words themselves had taken up space in his chest.
"I see her," he said.
And for the first time, Lian believed him.
Later that night, Lian sat at his desk, his notebook open but blank.
He wasn't drawing.
He was writing.
Not in one language, but two.
The lines came slower this time. More careful. More earned.
He didn't translate the words directly. Some meanings didn't fit inside boxes.
Instead, he wrote what felt true.
Like his mother's favorite dish that didn't have a name in English.
Like the way his father said "I'll try" instead of "I love you."
Like how silence had begun to mean trust, not absence.
At the bottom of the page, he drew a single candle.
Next to it, two shadows.
One reaching for the flame.
One steadying the light.