An education expert said, "For children who don't contact their parents, just leave them alone. Do your best, and let the rest be. Just remember three things: don't pry, don't try to please, and don't disturb. He's responsible for his own life; live your own life to the fullest. The relationship between parents and children is simply about watching each other drift apart. Family affection isn't about binding or entanglement; it's about dignified fulfillment." There's a woman in Taiwan named Lung Ying-tai. She's a writer, writing books and articles for decades. She wrote *Wildfire*, *Watching You Go*, and *Dear Andre*. Her writing is sharp as a knife, yet when facing her son, she's as soft as cotton.
She has a son named Andre. He's of mixed Chinese and German descent, tall, handsome, and has his own ideas. Lung Ying-tai loves him deeply. But she never says "I love you," never asks "When are you coming back?", and never calls to say "I miss you." It's not that she doesn't want to, but that she doesn't dare. Because she feared that speaking would be seen as nagging, questioning as manipulating, and flattery as subservience.
The best thing she ever did wasn't writing countless bestsellers or winning numerous literary awards, but rather, as her son drifted further away, she controlled her tongue, withdrew her hands, and learned not to pry, not to flatter, and not to disturb.
In 2004, Andrei was 18. He went to study in Hong Kong, leaving Germany and his mother. Lung Ying-tai was in Taipei, alone. She checked the calendar daily, calculating the time difference. She knew what time her son finished school, what time he ate, and what time he went to bed. Several times she picked up the phone, dialed the last digit, and then hung up.
It wasn't that she didn't want to call. She desperately wanted to. She wanted to ask: What did you eat today? Was your homework difficult? Have you made any new friends? Did you wear more clothes because it's cold? But she couldn't bring herself to ask.
She told herself, he's 18 now; he doesn't need a mother who checks up on him every day. If she called, he would answer. But he would be annoyed. Once, twice, three times, and slowly she didn't want to answer the phone anymore, slowly she didn't want to go home anymore, slowly she didn't want to talk to her anymore.
She endured it. One week, two weeks, three weeks. She waited, waiting for him to call. Finally, Andre called, saying, "Mom, I'm fine. Is there anything else?"
Just thirty seconds. Lung Ying-tai said, "Nothing, go ahead and do your work," and hung up. She sat there for a long time. She wanted to cry, but felt she shouldn't. Her son hadn't done anything wrong; he just had his own life now.
Later, she wrote in her book, "I slowly, slowly came to understand that the so-called relationship between father and daughter, mother and son, simply means that your connection with them in this life is to constantly watch their backs as they walk further and further away." She wasn't writing an article; she was comforting herself.
When Andre was 20, Lung Ying-tai came up with a solution. She wrote letters. Not every day, not every week. She discussed with Andre about writing a column together as a correspondence. Andre agreed. Thus, the book *Dear Andre* came to be.
But what many people don't know is that Lung Ying-tai wrote and deleted those letters repeatedly. She had so much to say, but she dared not say it all. She wanted to write, "Mom misses you so much," but deleted it. She wanted to write, "How long has it been since you came home?" but deleted it. She wanted to write, "How cute you were when you were little," but deleted that too.
She was afraid these words would sound like complaints, demands, or flattery. If she flattered him, her son would feel pressured. Pressure would make him want to escape.
Later, she wrote those deleted words in her diary, but never sent a single one. Her letters to Andre always contained only three things: sharing her life, asking about his well-being, and ending with, "Take care of yourself."
There was no longing, no expectation, no "When are you coming back?" She was happy when Andre replied. If he didn't reply, she didn't urge him. Someone asked her, "Aren't you afraid your son will think you're cold?"
She said, "I am. But I'm even more afraid he'll think I'm annoying. Between indifference and annoyance, I choose indifference. At least indifference won't make him want to run away."
After graduating from university, Andre returned to Germany to work. Lung Ying-tai stayed in Taipei, and later moved to Taitung. The two were 10,000 kilometers apart, with time differences, temperature differences, and language barriers. She didn't know what he did every day, what friends he made, or whether he was happy.
One year, Andre didn't call her for three whole months. Lung Ying-tai's friends found out and said, "Why don't you call and ask? What if something happened to him?" Lung Ying-tai said, "If he doesn't call, it means everything's fine. He'll call if something happens."
Her friends said again, "You could send a message, just a 'How are you doing?'" Lung Ying-tai thought for a moment and said, "If he doesn't want to reply, my message is a disturbance. If he wants to reply, he'll naturally contact me."
Asking "Why don't you call?" sounds simple, but the subtext is "You should call me." Once there's an element of "should," love becomes a debt.
Three months later, one evening, Andre called. He said, "Mom, I've been too busy with work lately and haven't had a chance to talk. I'm sorry." Lung Ying-tai said, "It's okay, keep going."
After hanging up, she cried. She didn't cry because she felt wronged, but because she was relieved. Relieved that she hadn't pressed him, hadn't lost her temper, hadn't said, "What kind of son are you?" She preserved that phone call, and she preserved that little space in her son's heart.
When Lung Ying-tai was 60, she decided to move to Taitung. It was by the sea, quiet, and suitable for writing. A friend asked her, "You're moving so far away, what will Andre do when he comes back?"
Lung Ying-tai said, "He only comes back once every few years. Whether I live in Taipei or Taitung, he comes back once every few years. It makes no difference." There was no longer a place for her in her son's life. It wasn't that he was unfilial; he had his own path. Her path and her son's path had diverged. Forcing them to merge would only result in mutual harm.
She wrote down that passage from "Watching You Go": "You stand at one end of the path, watching him gradually disappear around the bend, and he silently tells you with his back: There's no need to chase." She wasn't writing for her readers; she was writing for herself. She told herself, there's no need to chase. Chasing wouldn't catch up, and even if she did, she couldn't keep him; keeping him wouldn't bring happiness.
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