Slandered and Vindicated

The snow in T City cannot illuminate my mother's lies. The first time I heard "Dame (No)" misunderstood in a T City's Pub was on that winter night when I was video calling my mother. The warm yellow light in the Pub wrapped around the scent of sake, the wooden tables and chairs polished smooth from use, while the beckoning cat figurine hanging on the wall gently swayed. When the customers at the next table waved their hands to refuse the staff's offer of a refill, one casually uttered "Dame (No)", the voice soft but like a needle piercing straight into the mother's ear on the other end of the phone. Mother, who had been rambling on about trivial matters at home, suddenly leaned close to the phone screen as if burned by the word, her facial wrinkles instantly twisting into a tight knot. Her voice was sharp and urgent, piercing my eardrums through the receiver: "Stella, tell Mom the truth. Are you filming those kinds of videos over there? Everyone who often hears that word is said to be an indecent woman..." My knuckles went white the moment I gripped the phone, the cold metal pressing painfully into my palm. The guests behind me were already shooting displeased glances this way; some frowned slightly, while others paused with chopsticks in hand, clearly disturbed by Mother's loud voice. "Mom, I'm working part-time. I'm just chatting with customers at the Pub." I lowered my voice to explain, trying to keep it calm, but the anger inside me was already rising. No sooner had I finished speaking than Mother's roar pierced the receiver, making my ears ring: "I heard everything, and you're still lying! You insist on running off to J Country to study, as if there are no good schools here! I told you again and again, but you never listened. Now you've even learned to make up lies to me!" The murmurs around grew louder, some whispering in J Language with eyes full of curiosity and scrutiny. I felt my cheeks burning, my hand trembled as I held the phone, and I could only hastily end the video call. Just as the screen went dark, it was flooded with dozens of voice messages — even without listening, I knew they were all full of biting insults and accusations. I stared at the input box for a long time, my finger hovering over the screen before finally typing: "If, in your eyes, I am that kind of person, then let's cut off ties." The moment the message was sent, the Pub's noren was flung open by the cold wind outside, a chill creeping up from my ankles that made me shiver. I suddenly remembered the winter when I was fifteen, just as cold as this, when she cried out in front of the neighbors, accusing me of "stealing money from home to play games," her voice loud enough to echo through half the hallway. No one knew that day she lost the last of Father's savings playing mahjong. Afraid of being chased by debt collectors, she was the one who smeared dirt on me. That day, I hid in my room, listening to the neighbors' gossip, wrapped in blankets, crying all night. From that moment on, I knew that in her eyes, I was never truly her daughter—only a tool to cover up her own mistakes.