The woman at the alley entrance

     Before moving to this neighborhood, I rented a place in the suburbs. Passing by the alleyway, a familiar scene flashed before my eyes…

    At night, the residents at the alleyway's entrance would turn off their lights and go to sleep early. Only one house had its light on all the time, and a middle-aged woman sat at the door. At first, I didn't pay much attention. But after seeing her more often, I started to notice. This woman seemed to be waiting for someone, and upon closer inspection, I saw she was holding a pillow in her arms, which she claimed was her child. I overheard from several other residents at the alleyway that the woman had a child late in life. When the child was six, he went to play in the river and stayed there for half a day. Someone saw the child's body and ran back to tell the woman. She rushed to the riverbank, saw her drowned child, and suddenly went mad. During the day, this woman, with disheveled hair, would sit by the river for hours, clutching the pillow. At night, she would sit slumped at the door, still clutching the pillow. Later, the woman's husband left, and from then on, only this woman remained in the house.

    The people living here said, "Don't go near her, she'll hit you." I didn't believe them and tried to approach her. At first, she curled up into a ball, clutching her pillow tightly to her chest, and said fearfully, "Don't take my child away." The woman gently breathed on the pillow and said, "Don't be afraid, Mommy's here." I whispered, "Don't be afraid, I won't take your child." She slowly relaxed her guard. Looking at her, her face had distinct features beneath her messy hair, and she was neither fat nor thin.

    A flock of chicks followed behind their mother hen. The woman ran into the house, grabbed a handful of rice, and scattered it on the ground. The chicks and the mother hen huddled together, clucking as they ate. The woman watched intently, then ran back and grabbed another handful of rice, feeding each grain to her pillow baby. I was drawn into the scene and exclaimed, "Raw rice! A baby can't eat that!" She was startled at first, then looked up and smiled gently. Her eyes were bright but slightly unfocused. She didn't have time to react, and after a long while, she returned a small smile.

    Every night when I passed the alleyway, I saw that woman holding her baby pillow. We would exchange a gentle smile. The baby pillow was her only solace; she clung to a sliver of hope, waiting for her beloved husband and adorable son.

    Maternal love, whether lucid or insane, remains. Innate instincts cannot be changed. Until I moved away, I never knew that woman's name, but I knew there was a name that best suited her—"Motherly Love."