My mother truly wanted to care for me and protect me.
Yet for us to survive, she had to stand by with open eyes, watching other men degrade and exploit me.
I sincerely wanted to treat her with filial piety and kindness, too.
Yet as time went on, I often found myself feeling deeply annoyed by her.
She insisted on micromanaging every tiny detail, keeping an obsessively tight grip on our money.
The bright, youthful spark in her eyes had faded long ago.
The only time a flicker of life returned to her eyes was when she laid them on cash.
Whenever customers came through the door, she bowed low and acted completely subservient, like a humble servant.
Yet the moment a client offered too little money, she flipped in an instant, raining down sharp curses without hesitation.
Every time she put on that performance, I felt thoroughly embarrassed and caught in the middle.
I understood as well as anyone that we were in this trade solely to earn money and stay alive.
Even so, I couldn’t help feeling that even for money, there was no need to burn every bridge so recklessly.
I had my moments of being indifferent to clients, but I always knew how to balance things.
I had my own way of handling people—keeping them from finding fault, getting angry, or pushing too hard.
My mother’s approach was far too harsh and impulsive, easily offending people and courting trouble.
After all, we relied on these men for our livelihood, and driving them away was the last thing we should do.
Perhaps my softer touch was simply because I was still young and hadn’t grown completely hardened.
My mother was different; she lived purely for money, completely unconcerned with anything else.
Yet I couldn’t truly blame her—the suffering and hardship she had endured were far greater than mine.
Maybe in a few years, I would turn into the exact same version of her.
When people grow old, their hearts age and harden along with their bodies.
In the end, you become as cold and unfeeling as the money you chase.
My mother acted with zero hesitation and no holding back.
She would reach right into a client’s pocket and snatch his wallet.
She would quietly pocket a patron’s expensive hat, gloves, or walking cane whenever no one was looking.
I was constantly terrified that her reckless habits would spark a disaster and ruin us.
Yet my mother always had her own reasoning.
“Every extra penny counts,” she would tell me flatly.
“People like us live ten years in the span of one,” she added, her eyes cold. “When you’re old and ugly, in your seventies or eighties, who’s going to pay a dime for you?”
Sometimes a client would pass out dead drunk, completely unconscious.
She would haul him out, dragging him to a quiet, deserted alley to leave him on the ground.
Before walking away, she would even slip the shoes off his feet and take them with her.
Strangely enough, not a single client ever came back to cause a scene.
They were usually too blackout drunk to remember what had happened.
Or perhaps once they sobered up, a vague memory returned, and their own sense of pride kept them from coming back to confront us.
We had no dignity left to lose, but those respectable gentlemen were terrified of public embarrassment.