I Told My Son to Stand Up Straight. Then I Saw Him Practicing Alone in the Mirror.

Xiaoyuan came home from school with his backpack strap slipping down to his elbow, his back curved like a snail that had put its shell on backward. Lin Xiufang was in the kitchen cutting winter melon. She heard the door and, without turning around, said, “Stand up straight.”

Xiaoyuan hitched his backpack up and pulled his shoulders back. Three seconds. Then they collapsed again. He changed his shoes with the heels crushed down, didn’t bend over, just rubbed them with the toe of his foot. Lin Xiufang came out with the plate of winter melon, saw him, and the words came out on their own: “How many times have I told you? If you crush the heels like that, you’ll trip.”

Xiaoyuan didn’t say anything. He put the shoes straight and went into his room, closing the door to a crack.

Lin Xiufang stood in the living room, still holding the plate of winter melon. She heard the zipper of his backpack open and close, then the sound of chair legs scraping the floor. She wanted to push the door all the way open. Her hand reached halfway, then pulled back.

When she was little, her mother never knocked. Her mother would push the door open, see her hunched over her homework, and the first sentence was always “Sit up straight. Do you want to ruin your eyes?” She would straighten her back until it ached, and collapse again after her mother left. Later she learned one thing: in front of her mother, keep your back straight. Where her mother couldn’t see, your back could bend. Bending was comfortable.

She didn’t want to become her mother. But when she said “Stand up straight,” her voice sounded exactly like her mother’s.

On the day of the school physical, the teacher called and said Xiaoyuan might have a slight curve in his spine and suggested a hospital visit. Lin Xiufang took half a day off and went with him. The doctor had Xiaoyuan bend forward, felt his back, and said it was nothing serious—postural hunching. More exercise. Don’t sit around all day.

Lin Xiufang relaxed. Out of the exam room, her mouth moved faster than her brain: “You hear that? The doctor said more exercise. You sit hunched over playing games all day—of course your back curves.”

Xiaoyuan pulled his jacket zipper all the way to the top and buried his chin inside, leaving only his eyes. He didn’t talk back. He didn’t agree, either. He just walked. Lin Xiufang saw him like that, and the anger rose again, but she held it back. Her way of holding it back was to walk faster and leave him two steps behind. Xiaoyuan didn’t chase her. He kept those two steps of distance.

That night Lin Xiufang got up for water. Passing Xiaoyuan’s room, she saw the door wasn’t fully closed. Xiaoyuan was standing in front of the wardrobe mirror, pulling his shoulders back hard, his neck jutting forward. He held it for a few seconds, then collapsed, looked at himself in the mirror, and pulled them back again. This time he couldn’t hold it. He patted his own back with his palm, as if patting a disobedient thing.

Lin Xiufang stood outside the door and didn’t go in. She remembered junior high, when she had patted her own back like that. Her mother said, “Why are you always hunched over?” So when no one was around, she practiced pushing her chest out in front of the window glass until her shoulders ached. Later she stopped, because she discovered that when her mother couldn’t see, she could do whatever was comfortable.

The next day, Lin Xiufang came home from work with a basketball and left it by the shoe cabinet. Xiaoyuan came out for dinner, saw it, and didn’t ask. Lin Xiufang didn’t say anything either. On Saturday morning, Xiaoyuan carried the ball out. He came back at noon, covered in sweat, the back of his T-shirt wet. Lin Xiufang said, “Eat.” Xiaoyuan said, “Yeah.” At the table, neither of them mentioned the basketball.

It was the first exchange in weeks that didn’t end with a door closing.

Lin Xiufang worked in planning at an advertising agency. They had a big project then, and she worked overtime every day. One night she got home close to eleven. Xiaoyuan was already asleep. She saw a bowl turned upside down on the dining table, lifted it, and found half a cake. The cut was uneven, as if scooped out with a spoon. Beside it was a note in Xiaoyuan’s handwriting: “For Mom. There’s more in the fridge.”

Lin Xiufang stood at the table and ate the half cake. The cream was a little melted, the sponge dry, but she finished it. She peeled off the plastic wrap, folded it, and put it in the drawer. She used to hate saving plastic wrap; she thought it was something only her mother did. But that day she folded it into a square and pressed the crease flat.

The next day she told Xiaoyuan, “The cake was good.” Xiaoyuan was putting on his shoes and didn’t look up. He said, “Oh.” But Lin Xiufang saw the tip of his ear turn red.

Things went bad on a Wednesday.

Xiaoyuan came home from school, threw his backpack onto the sofa, and sat there without moving. Lin Xiufang was revising a proposal. She looked up and asked, “What’s wrong?”

Xiaoyuan said, “Nothing.”

Lin Xiufang said, “Nothing, and you’re sitting there spacing out? Have you done your homework?”

Xiaoyuan said, “Done.”

Lin Xiufang said, “Then go straighten your back. You can’t even sit straight on the sofa.”

Xiaoyuan suddenly stood up. His voice wasn’t loud, but it was hard: “Can you stop managing my back?”

Lin Xiufang froze. The mouse in her hand was still lit, the proposal on the screen only half revised. She said, “If I don’t manage you, who will? You think walking around hunched looks good?”

Xiaoyuan said, “It doesn’t look good. But this is how I am.”

Lin Xiufang said, “What kind of attitude is that?”

Xiaoyuan didn’t speak again. He shrank back onto the sofa, hugged his knees, rested his chin on them, and curled into a ball. Lin Xiufang reached out to pull his shoulder open. Her hand had just touched him when he dodged slightly to the side. The dodge was small. Lin Xiufang’s hand hung in the air.

She turned back to the computer and said, “Fine. I won’t manage you anymore.”

Xiaoyuan sat on the sofa for a while, then got up and went to his room. The door closed. This time it closed all the way, with a click.

Lin Xiufang sat in front of the computer and didn’t change a single word. She remembered being little, when her mother scolded her for being hunched, and she had shrunk like that too. Her mother reached out to pull her shoulder, and she had dodged like that too. What she thought then was: Don’t touch me. Now you come to manage me—where were you earlier?

When she reached out just now, was Xiaoyuan thinking the same thing?

She didn’t go knock. She stood up, walked to Xiaoyuan’s door, crouched down, and straightened the slippers he had crushed under his heels. She straightened the left one. Then the right one. Then she stood up and went back to her room.

The next morning, when Xiaoyuan came out, the slippers were straight. He paused for a moment as he put them on, but didn’t say anything.

In the summer, Xiaoyuan signed up for a camp in the suburbs, seven days. Lin Xiufang saw him onto the bus. Xiaoyuan had his backpack on. His back was still a little curved, but he wasn’t shrinking. Lin Xiufang said, “Be safe.” Xiaoyuan said, “I know.” The bus left. Lin Xiufang stood where she was until the bus turned the corner.

Back home, she went into Xiaoyuan’s room to collect his clothes. There was a piece of paper pressed under his pillow. She pulled it out. It was a drawing in crayon: one adult, one child, holding hands. The adult was drawn very tall, the back a straight line. The child was drawn short, the back curved like a bow. But their hands were connected, five fingers each, drawn carefully.

Lin Xiufang put the drawing back under the pillow and didn’t move it. She sat on Xiaoyuan’s bed. The sheets were blue plaid, a little pilled from washing. She sat there for a while, shoulders collapsing, back curved. No one was watching. She didn’t need to straighten it.

The day Xiaoyuan came back, Lin Xiufang went to pick him up. He was tanned, his hair a little longer, his backpack strap still slipping down to his elbow. Lin Xiufang took the bag and put it on her own shoulder. Xiaoyuan looked at her and didn’t argue.

On the way, Lin Xiufang asked, “Hungry?”

Xiaoyuan said, “Hungry.”

Lin Xiufang said, “I’ll cook noodles when we get home.”

Xiaoyuan said, “Add an egg.”

Lin Xiufang said, “Two eggs.”

Xiaoyuan didn’t say anything. He walked beside her. His back wasn’t deliberately straight, and it wasn’t shrinking either. He was just walking, arms swinging, occasionally brushing against Lin Xiufang’s arm. Lin Xiufang didn’t dodge. He didn’t either.

At the door, Lin Xiufang fished out her keys. The backpack strap slipped off her shoulder. Xiaoyuan reached out and put the strap back on her shoulder. The movement was light, like fixing a backpack strap. Lin Xiufang said, “Thank you.” Xiaoyuan said, “You’re welcome.”

The door opened. The light was on. Lin Xiufang went to the kitchen to boil water. Xiaoyuan changed his shoes, and he didn’t crush the heels. He walked to the kitchen doorway, stood there for a moment, and said, “Mom, can I add a sausage to the noodles?”

Lin Xiufang said, “Yes.”

Xiaoyuan said, “Then I’ll cut it myself.”

He opened the fridge, took out a ham sausage, and stood at the cutting board cutting it. The slices were uneven. One slice rolled onto the floor. He bent down, picked it up, and threw it in the trash. Lin Xiufang watched his back bend, then straighten. She didn’t say anything. She put the noodles into the pot.

The water boiled, steam rising. Xiaoyuan pushed the cut sausage toward her hand and said, “Put it all in.”

Lin Xiufang said, “Okay.”

The noodles were served in two bowls. Xiaoyuan’s bowl had two eggs on top and a pile of sausage slices. He sat down, picked up his chopsticks. His back was still a little curved, but he ate with great focus. Lin Xiufang sat across from him and picked up her chopsticks too.

Outside, the sky darkened. The kitchen light was warm. Neither of them mentioned his back again.