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strangely distant—cold and formal—and those were the times when I missed Father the most, when I felt the saddest.
    Peering at my face in the mirror, I looked surprisingly lively. My face was like that of a stranger. An animated face, liberated from my own sadness and pain and seemingly disconnected from such feelings. Although I wasn't wearing any rouge today, my cheeks were attractively rosy, and my lips glowed prettily. I took off my glasses and smiled softly. My eyes looked so nice. They were so pale and clear. I wondered if staring at the beautiful evening sky for so long had made my eyes look like this. Lucky me.
    I went into the kitchen a little jauntily and then, while I was washing the rice, sadness washed back over me. I missed the house where we used to live in Koganei. I missed it with a searing pain. Both Father and Sis had been in that lovely home. And Mother had been young there. When I would come home from school, Mother and Sis would be chatting amusingly in the kitchen or in the living room. I'd be given a snack, and they'd both dote on me for a little while, then I'd pick a quarrel with my sister and be scolded, without fail, and I'd rush off outside to ride my bike as far away as I could. In the evening I'd return and we'd have a pleasant dinner. I really did enjoy it. There had been no need to reflect upon myself or be anxious about my impurity—all I had to do was be coddled. What a tremendous privilege I had enjoyed. And I hadn't even cared. There had been nothing to worry about, or to be sad or bitter about. Father had been a splendid and wonderful father. Sis was kind, I had constantly hung about her. But then, gradually as I grew up, first I began to disgust myself, and before I knew it that privilege of mine had disappeared and, stripped bare, I was absolutely awful. I hadn't the least desire to play up to anyone, I was always brooding over something, and I faced constant hardship. Sis was married off, and Father was no longer here. Mother and I were left all alone. Mother must have been terribly lonely too. She once said to me, "From now on, the joy in life is gone. Forgive me for saying, but when I look at you, the truth is, I don't feel much pleasure. Without your father, perhaps it's best if there is no happiness." She said that when the mosquitoes come out she suddenly thinks of Father, when she does the unsewing she thinks of Father, when she trims her nails she also thinks of Father, and especially when the tea is delicious she thinks of Father. No matter how much I sympathize with how Mother felt, or how much companionship I offer her, I will never compare with Father. Marital love is the strongest love in the world, stronger than familial love, and a precious thing it is. Such impertinent thoughts, even when I was alone, made my face grow hot, and I smoothed my hair with a wet hand. Swishing the rice as I washed it, Mother seemed very dear and pitiable to me—I ought to cherish her with all of my heart. I would take this silly wave out of my hair immediately and grow my hair much longer. Mother has never cared for short hair on me, so if I grow it out and then show her how it looks done up properly, I bet she'll be pleased. But to do something like that out of sympathy for Mother seems absurd. Horrible, really. When I think about it, my irritability these days is definitely related to Mother. I want to be a good daughter whose feelings are in perfect sync with Mother's, and just because of that, I go to these absurd lengths to please her. The best thing would be if Mother could just intuit how I felt, without my saying anything, and she could rest easy. No matter how selfish I am, I will never do anything to make myself a laughingstock—even in my pain and loneliness I will still protect what is important. Since I love Mother and this house so very dearly, she should have absolute confidence in me, and just be carefree and relaxed. I will make sure to do a good job. I will keep my