I've loved my mother's desk since I was just tall enough to see above the top of it as mother sat writing letters. Standing by her chair, looking at the ink bottle, pens, and white paper, I thought that the act of writing is the coolest thing in the world.

    Years later, during her final illness, my mother kept different things for my sister and my brother.“ But the desk，” She said, “it's for Helen.”

    Although I knew she loved me and she only showed it in action, I wanted heart­to­heart talks between mother and daughter. But they never happened. And agulfopened between us. I was “too emotional (易动感情的)”，but she lived “on the surface”．

    I had my own family later. I loved my mother and thanked her for our happy family. I wrote to her in careful words and asked her to let me know in any way she chose that she forgave me. I posted the letter and waited for her answer. It didn't come.

    My hope turned to disappointment, then little interest and finally, peace—it seemed that nothing happened. I wasn't even sure if the letter had got to mother. I only knew that I had written it, and I never heard from her!

    Now the present of her desk told, as she'd never been able to, that she was pleased that writing was my chosen work. I cleaned the desk carefully and found some papers inside—a photo of my father and a one­page letter, folded and refolded many times.

    Give me an answer, my letter asks, in any way you choose. Mother, you always chose the act that speaks louder than words.