My Mother's Distant Shadow

A sharp crack echoed as his palm struck my cheek hard, the sting spreading like fire across my skin, leaving behind a vivid red imprint.

"Get lost! I refuse to acknowledge a useless failure like you as my son!"

The man shouting at me was my father, Zhou Wen. Years of heavy drinking and reckless living had hollowed out his features—sunken eyes, a sallow complexion, and a gaunt face that made him look more like a defeated animal than a person. His clothes were ragged and stained, unchanged for who knows how long.

Three years had passed since he and my mother divorced. Since then, he'd barely stepped outside, surviving on delivered food and endless bottles of liquor.

"Fine. I'm leaving. I never want to see your face again either."

I pressed a hand to my throbbing cheek, fighting back the tears that threatened to spill. Not wanting him to witness my weakness, I spun around and headed straight to my room to gather my belongings.

There wasn't much to take—just a few textbooks, some notebooks, a favorite mug, and basic supplies. I stuffed everything into two bags in minutes, then marched back through the living room.

Trash lay heaped everywhere, layers of it accumulated over months, maybe longer. If I hadn't occasionally tidied up, the place would have turned into a complete dump long ago. The filth and neglect made my stomach turn. I couldn't stand another second in that suffocating space. With a final slam of the door, I left it all behind.

My father didn't even glance up from his bottle as I stormed out.

The heavy metal door banged shut with a resounding thud. I hurried down the stairwell, tears blurring my vision despite my efforts to hold them in.

Memories flooded back—of a time not so long ago when everything felt perfect. A sophisticated, well-mannered father. A warm, caring mother. A spacious, elegant home filled with comfort and plenty. How had it all crumbled so quickly? Bitterness twisted inside me like a knife.

My name is Zhou Bin. I'm eighteen, a senior at Jingzhou City's Second High School.

Our family had deep roots in commerce. For generations, the Zhou name carried weight in local business circles. By my grandfather's time, our wealth had swelled into the hundreds of millions, placing us among the four most influential merchant clans in Jingzhou.

That comfortable life had spoiled my father, Zhou Wen, turning him into someone stubborn and entitled. As the only son, he'd been pampered from childhood, groomed as the heir with the best education and endless support. When he entered the world of business, he rode the wave of his grandfather's connections and reputation, expanding the family enterprises impressively for a while.

My mother, Gu Wanxin, was the second daughter of the Gu clan—another of Jingzhou's four major families. Like him, she had received a top-tier education and quickly proved herself a brilliant force in the corporate world, sharp, decisive, and highly capable.

In her younger days, she was breathtaking—a true standout beauty in the city. Admirers from elite political and commercial spheres pursued her relentlessly, yet none ever won her interest.

Then, at a high-profile business gathering, my father laid eyes on her and was instantly captivated, as though struck by divine beauty. He courted her with tireless charm and creativity. While he wasn't particularly gifted in running the company, he excelled at winning hearts. Eventually, his persistence paid off.

Both families saw advantages in the match: the Zhou business was thriving, and he was the sole heir. With encouragement from the elders on both sides, the wedding took place.

After the marriage, and even before my birth, my mother stepped into the Zhou family enterprises. Her talent shone brightly, driving remarkable growth. But that very success bred resentment in my father.

Raised with a deep-seated belief in male superiority, he couldn't stomach the idea of his wife outshining him. Tensions crept into their relationship.

When I arrived, my mother chose to step back from her career entirely, embracing the role of devoted wife and mother—a luxurious stay-at-home life. For a time, harmony returned, and my early years were wrapped in security and affection.

Then, around my tenth birthday, my grandfather fell gravely ill and passed away. My father, still relatively young, assumed full leadership of the family holdings, briefly basking in the spotlight as one of Jingzhou's youngest patriarchs.

But the truth soon emerged: his earlier triumphs had leaned heavily on inherited networks and wisdom. On his own, he lacked the vision or adaptability needed. Our core business—traditional brick-and-mortar department stores—suffered massive blows from the explosion of online retail. Instead of pivoting, he stubbornly clung to outdated methods, and the company began to falter rapidly against nimbler rivals.

My mother tried to help, quietly offering strategic insights from the sidelines. Some of her ideas did stem the bleeding. Yet my father's pride refused to accept guidance from a woman—especially his wife. He dismissed her input, even transferred her shares to himself, relegating her once more to full-time homemaker.

Though hurt, she carried on without complaint, managing the household with grace. With my father increasingly absent and distracted, I grew especially attached to her. My days revolved around her gentle presence—our bond deeper than any other, rooted in unbreakable affection.

Back then, in my innocence, I simply saw her as the most beautiful, kindest person alive, the one who cherished me above everything.

But happiness proved fragile. As the business continued its downward spiral, stores shuttered one after another. Competitors seized every opportunity to press the advantage. Desperate, my father borrowed heavily—first from banks, then from shady private lenders—piling up crushing debt.

My mother understood the crisis. She offered to leverage her Gu family connections to pull things back from the brink. But soon after, ugly whispers began circulating—accusations of her unfaithfulness.

Even after years, my mother's allure had only deepened. She gave birth to me at twenty; by the time I reached thirteen, she was thirty-three, in the prime of mature beauty.

She maintained her appearance meticulously—skincare, exercise, everything. Standing at 172 cm, she possessed lustrous black hair, expressive almond eyes framed by graceful brows, and full, naturally crimson lips. A small, alluring mole graced the corner of her mouth. Her face remained smooth and luminous, oval-shaped perfection.

Time had gifted her the refined poise of a seasoned woman—elegant, dignified, irresistibly sophisticated. Her body had filled out into voluptuous curves: generous, uplifted breasts, a narrow waist, and long, shapely legs.

Yet her most striking feature was her backside—full, rounded, and exquisitely firm. Even in youth, her hips had been pert and eye-catching. With age and dedicated care, they had grown plush and prominent, straining against any outfit she chose, creating a mesmerizing contrast with her slim waist and thick thighs—like a perfectly ripe fruit begging to be admired.

Her beauty and striking figure, combined with her impeccable sense of style, made her a sensation in Jingzhou. She favored form-fitting dresses and skirts that showcased her silhouette, always paired with elegant stockings—sometimes sheer nude, sometimes sleek black or gray—and towering heels that elongated her already impressive legs.

She became known far and wide as "Jingzhou's Foremost Beauty."

At home, she embodied quiet virtue and warmth. In public, she radiated glamorous sophistication.

Like a fully ripened fruit, her mature sensuality only intensified with time.

Her consistently alluring wardrobe fueled endless gossip. Malicious tongues claimed she dressed to entice lovers. The nickname only amplified the lewd speculation. Crude remarks followed her name everywhere.

When the rumors reached my father, he exploded, storming home to accuse her. He vented all his business frustrations on us. She denied everything fiercely, insisting the stories were lies meant to divide them, begging him to think clearly.

Only later did I understand the deeper rot: after his failures, he'd developed impotence, unable to perform intimately. That loss, combined with his warped thinking, convinced him her glamorous appearance was proof of betrayal—an unbearable humiliation. Their marriage unraveled completely.

Yet I knew the truth. My mother was far more than her looks. She was wise, composed, devoted—to me, to the household, to her duties. How could someone so loyal stoop to infidelity during his darkest hour?

Still, he couldn't see it. Quarrels filled our home daily.

Eventually, exhausted by his drinking and endless blame, she chose divorce. She fought desperately for my custody, but the Gu family, disillusioned with the marriage, refused to support bringing a potential heir into their fold. With my father still holding some resources, custody went to him.

The day she left, she held me tightly, tears streaming, kissed me farewell, and walked away. Heartbroken, she departed Jingzhou entirely, heading to the United States to rebuild her life and career.

Until I was thirteen, she had been my whole world. Her absence left an emptiness nothing could fill.

In that first year after she left for America, we spoke almost daily. She checked on me constantly, full of concern for my life here.