Seeing my son staying up late every night during puberty, I peeked through the crack in the door and was shocked by the scene before my eyes.

The story of my mother and I, the story of the invisible wall between two generations, seems to be not uncommon. It is the story of many families, where parents and children are lost in the whirlpool of expectations and pressures. I still remember that fateful night, the night I saw my son – not as a spoiled child as I had mistakenly thought, but as a lonely warrior struggling in silence.

My worries did not stop at staying up late. Gradually, I realized that Minh was withdrawing into himself, he spoke less and smiled less. Our conversations became increasingly awkward. I tried to start a conversation by asking about school and friends, but his answers were always short and superficial. “Just a normal school, Mom.” “I don’t have any close friends.” Those answers were like invisible knives, cutting into my heart, making me feel helpless and alienated from my own son.

And then, suspicion turned to fear. I started to monitor him, from watching when he went to sleep, when he woke up, to trying to eavesdrop on his phone calls. I knew I was doing something wrong, invading his privacy, but fear overcame everything. I was afraid that I would lose him, not to death, but because he would stray down some wrong path, a path that I could not see, could not intervene.

The light from my son’s room every night, in my mind, is no longer the light of studying, but the light of a dark truth that I dare not face. I wonder if the glitter of social media, the traps of virtual life have swallowed my little son? There was a time when I wanted to break into my son’s room to talk frankly, but then, I hesitated. I was afraid that such frankness would push my son further away from me, would make the wall between us even stronger.

Then the night came. It was almost 1am, and the anxiety was at its peak. It made me do something I knew was wrong, but couldn’t resist: spy on what my son was doing. I held my breath, walking barefoot on the cold wooden floor, so softly that I didn’t make a sound. My heart was pounding in my chest. I peered through the narrow crack of the door, bracing myself for anything. It could be images of my son playing games, watching something bad, or chatting with bad friends.

But what I saw stunned me, making my limbs weak, having to hold onto the wall to steady myself.

No games, no dark websites. On my son’s computer screen was an online lecture on complex chemistry, with formulas and chemical reactions piled up on top of each other. His desk was piled with books, outlines, and thick test papers. I could clearly see the crossed-out lines and scribbled notes on the paper. My son, who was emaciated, with dark circles under his eyes, was wearily leaning his head on the desk. He sat there, quiet and lonely under the yellow study lamp.

And then, what broke my heart happened. Minh stretched, rubbed his eyes tiredly, and opened the desk drawer. He didn’t take out any snacks or anything entertaining. He took out an old photo, a photo of the whole family on a trip to the beach 5 years ago. In the photo, he was a skinny, dark-skinned 6th grade boy, grinning with his arm around his father’s shoulder. My son just stared at his past smile, then let out a soft, sorrowful sigh.

At that moment, I suddenly realized everything. I wasn’t spoiled. I was just overwhelmed. The pressure from school, from family expectations, from the competition for achievements in society weighed heavily on my thin shoulders. I stayed up late not to play, but to struggle with the huge mountain of knowledge. I closed my door not because I hated my mother, but because I didn’t want anyone to see my tired, pressured, and perhaps lonely appearance. That sigh wasn’t just tiredness, it was regret for the carefree days gone by, it was confusion before an uncertain future.

I staggered back to my room, tears streaming down my face. I was wrong. I worried about my child’s future, forced him to go to a specialized school, and forgot that he also needed to rest and be a child. I watched him grow physically, but forgot that his soul also needed to be comforted. The wall between us was not built by him alone, but I also contributed to it. My invisible expectations, my pressing words, my comparisons with “other people’s children” had unintentionally become the cold bricks that built that wall.

The next morning, I woke up earlier than usual and prepared my son’s favorite breakfast: scrambled eggs with minced meat. I didn’t rush him like I usually do. I just did everything quietly and waited. When Minh walked out of the room, with his usual tired face, he was surprised to see me setting out breakfast on the table. “Mom…?” his voice faltered.

I smiled, a warm smile that I hadn’t given my child in a long time. “Eat up, child. You worked hard last night. We don’t need to rush today.” My child paused for a second, his eyes showing confusion, but then he softly said “yes”. Just one sound, but I knew that the wall between us had begun to crack. I saw in his eyes, a surprise, a little bewilderment, but also a glimmer of hope.

After breakfast, I sat across from my son, something we hadn’t done in a long time. “Minh, you don’t have to try so hard. Mom and Dad just want you to be healthy and happy.” I said, my voice shaking.

Minh raised his head, his eyes looking at me, for the first time in a long time, I saw real communication in his eyes, no longer the empty eyes of a boy trying to hide his emotions. “I… I want you to be proud of me.” His voice was small, but every word stabbed deep into my heart.

At that moment, I truly understood. My child was not only fighting for himself, but also fighting for me, for the expectations that I had unintentionally placed on him. He wanted to prove to me that he was good enough, excellent enough to be worthy of my love and expectations. My tears flowed again, not because of sadness, but because I felt sorry for him. I felt sorry for a 16-year-old boy who had to shoulder too much, struggling alone in a lonely battle.

I stood up, walked over to my son, and hugged him. How long had it been since I held him like this? His shoulders had broadened, but his body was still thin and trembling. I could feel the fatigue and pressure he had endured. “My son, I was wrong. I’m sorry. I was so worried about your future that I forgot about the present. I just need you to be healthy, that’s enough.”

In my arms, Minh burst into tears. The tears he had been holding back for so long poured out. He sobbed like a child, and I held him tightly, letting him release all the burdens and fears he had been carrying alone. I whispered in his ear: “Rest, my child. I am here, and I will always be with you.”

From that day on, everything changed. Dinner was no longer a silent meal. I started talking to my son more, about the little things of the day, about his interests. I encouraged him to go out, meet friends, and participate in extracurricular activities. I no longer rushed him to study, but instead, I suggested he watch a movie together, go for a walk together.

One evening, as I was getting ready for bed, the door to his room suddenly opened. “Mom, can I talk to you for a moment?” Minh asked, his voice shy.

I smiled, my heart filled with happiness. “Yes, son.”

We talked all night. He told me about his struggles at school, about peer pressure, about his dreams and fears. I listened to him, without judging or giving advice. I just listened and empathized. That night’s conversation was like a healing balm, it erased the cracks, mended the broken pieces in our hearts. The invisible wall between us completely collapsed.

Now, the light from your room is still on every night, but it is no longer the light of insecurity, but the light of hope. I know, you are still trying, but not trying in solitude. You know that you have a solid support, a mother who is always by your side, listening and loving you unconditionally.

Our story, I believe, is a lesson for all parents. Sometimes, we are so focused on creating a good future for our children that we forget that the most important thing is that we must be present in their present. The wall between parents and children is not built by the children, but by us. Let’s break it down, with love, by listening, and by understanding. Because, the love of parents is the guiding light for children on their journey to adulthood.