佚名/Anonymous
那天下午，我坐在教学楼二楼的窗台上，看着过往的车辆，心情更加低落。好几个星期前，我就开始盼望这一天的到来：裴老师带的四年级班的年终联欢就在那天举行。那个星期，裴老师还在黑板上挂了个倒计时牌。当这个期待已久的“联欢星期五”到来时，我们班九岁大的孩子们兴奋得像炸开了锅似的。
在裴老师征召做小甜饼的志愿者时，我高兴地推荐了妈妈。妈妈做的巧克力片在我们那个街区是最好吃的。我知道我的同学们也一定会喜欢的。但是都两点多了，她连个影儿都没有。其他同学的妈妈多数都来过了，留下她们做的饮料、饼干、薯条、蛋糕还有核仁巧克力饼。可我妈妈却还不见踪影。
“别担心，罗比，她很快就来了。”当我孤独失落地盯着楼下的大街时，裴老师说。我看了看墙上的钟，黑色的分针正好指向两点半。
我的周围，热闹的联欢正如火如荼地进行着，而我却不想挪开窗口这个观察点半步。裴老师想方设法地劝我离开，我仍一动不动，一门心思地希望看到家里那辆熟悉的汽车转过街角，载着我那一定是满怀内疚的妈妈，怀里抱着一罐她制作的出名的小甜饼。
三点的钟声惊扰了我的思绪，我沮丧地抓起桌上的书包，拖着沉重的脚步向家走去。
只要步行四个街区就可以到家了，一路上我就盘算着怎样报复妈妈：我一到家就狠狠地关上前门，她匆忙来迎我时拒绝和她拥抱，并发誓再也不和她说话。
当我到家时，家里空荡荡的。我到冰箱上找，看她是否给我留了便条，或许她会向我解释她没去的原因。可是什么也没有。我的心都要碎了，愤怒不已，气得下巴发抖。生平第一次，妈妈让我如此失望。
听到她进门的声音，我便上楼趴在自己的床上。
“罗比，”她有些急切地叫着我，“你在哪儿？”我听见她发疯似的逐个房间找我，想着我会在哪儿。我默不作声。不一会儿，她上楼了——脚步声越来越急促。
她走进我的房间，在我身边坐下来。我毫无表情地盯着枕头一动不动，当她不存在。
“对不起，宝贝儿，”她说，“我忘了，我太忙了，忘了——就这样苍白和简单。”
我还是没动。“不能原谅她，”我对自己说，“她让你丢脸，她把你忘了。应该惩罚她。”
而后，妈妈做了一件出乎我意料的事。她开始笑，我感觉得到她在浑身打战。开始还悄无声息，接着越来越急促，声音也越来越大。
简直令我难以置信，此时她还能笑得出来？我转过身，面对着她，好让她看到我愤怒而失望的眼神。
但妈妈根本不是在笑，她是在哭。“对不起，”她轻轻地啜泣着，“我让你失望了，我让我的宝贝儿子失望了。”
她倒在床上，开始像个小女孩一样哭泣。我惊呆了。我从没见到妈妈哭过，按我的理解，当妈妈的是不应该哭的。我不知道她看到我哭时是不是也这样。
我努力回想以前自己蹭破膝盖、磕伤脚趾时她安慰我说的那些话，那种时候她总能知道该说什么。此时此刻她在哭泣，我却是这样没用，一句深切关心的话都说不出来。
“好了，妈妈，”我伸出手轻轻地抚弄她的头发，结结巴巴地说，“其实我们根本不需要那些小甜饼的，那里好吃的东西已经够多了。别哭了，没关系，真的。”
虽然这些话在我听来是那么苍白无力，然而妈妈却坐了起来。她抹了抹眼睛，满是泪痕的脸庞绽放出一丝微笑。我不好意思地笑了，她把我抱到怀里。
我们没再说话，只是默默地拥抱了很久。通常我们拥抱一会儿就会松开，但这次，我决定，或许，我会坚持长久一些。
As I sat perched in the second-floor window of our brick schoolhouse that afternoon，my heart began to sink further with each passing car.This was a day I’d looked forward to for weeks：Miss Pace’s fourth-grade，end-of-the-year party.Miss Pace had kept a running countdown on the blackboard all that week，and our class of nine-year-old had bordered on insurrection by the time the much-anticipated“party Friday”had arrived.
I had happily volunteered my mother when Miss Pace requested cookie volunteers.Mom’s chocolate chips reigned supreme on our block，and I knew they’d be a hit with my classmates.But two o’clock passed，and there was no sign of her.Most of the other mothers had already come and gone，dropping off their offerings of punch and crackers，chips，cupcakes and brownies.My mother was missing in action.
“Don’t worry，Robbie，she’ll be along soon，”Miss Pace said as I gazed forlornly down at the street.I looked at the wall clock just in time to see its black minute hand shift to half-past.
Around me，the noisy party raged on，but I wouldn’t budge from my window watch post.Miss Pace did her best to coax me away，but I stayed put，holding out hope that the familiar family car would be round the corner，carrying my rightfully embarrassed mother with a tin of her famous cookies tucked under her arm.
The three o’clock bell soon jolted me from my thoughts and I dejectedly grabbed my book bag from my desk and shuffled out the door for home.
On the four-block walk to our house，I plotted my revenge.I would slam the front door upon entering，refuse to return her hug when she rushed over to me，and vow never to speak to her again.
The house was empty when I arrived and I looked for a note on the refrigerator that might explain my mother’s absence，but found none.My chin quivered with a mixture of heartbreak and rage.For the first time in my life，my mother had let me down.
I was lying face-down on my bed upstairs when I heard her come through the front door.
“Robbie，”she called out a bit urgently.“Where are you？”
I could then hear her darting frantically from room to room，wondering where I could be.I remained silent.In a moment，she mounted the steps—the sounds of her footsteps quickening as she ascended the staircase.
When she entered my room and sat beside me on my bed，I didn’t move but instead stared blankly into my pillow refusing to acknowledge her presence.
“I’m so sorry，honey，”she said.“I just forgot.I got busy and forgot—plain and simple.”
I still didn’t move.“Don’t forgive her，”I told myself.“She humiliated you.She forgot you.Make her pay.”
Then my mother did something completely unexpected.She began to laugh.I could feel her shudder as the laughter shook her.It began quietly at first and then increased in its velocity and volume.
I was incredulous.How could she laugh at a time like this？I rolled over and faced her，ready to let her see the rage and disappointment in my eyes.
But my mother wasn’t laughing at all.She was crying.“I’m so sorry，”she sobbed softly.“I let you down.I let my little boy down.”
She sank down on the bed and began to weep like a little girl.I was dumbstruck.I had never seen my mother cry.To my understanding，mothers weren’t supposed to.I wondered if this was how I looked to her when I cried.
I desperately tried to recall her own soothing words from times past when I’d skinned knees or stubbed toes，times when she knew just the right thing to say.But in that moment of tearful plight，words of profundity abandoned me like a worn-out shoe.
“It’s okay，Mom，”I stammered as I reached out and gently stroked her hair.“We didn’t even need those cookies.There was plenty of stuff to eat.Don’t cry.It’s all right.Really.”
My words，as inadequate as they sounded to me，prompted my mother to sit up.She wiped her eyes，and a slight smile began to crease her tear-stained cheeks.I smiled back awkwardly，and she pulled me to her.
We didn’t say another word.We just held each other in a long，silent embrace.When we came to the point where I would usually pull away，I decided that，this time，I could hold on，perhaps，just a little bit longer.
