Some lines of thoughts I have for Chapter 71
June 3, 2025 | 20 min read
To be honest, the quote, "You should also remember that your mother is a first-time mother too," has been echoing in my mind, particularly in relation to this chapter. I find it’s a perfect encapsulation of the chapter's core message. I first encountered this idea when someone was discussing parental imperfections, arguing that parents, too, are navigating the complex journey of parenthood for the first time.
It’s a compelling point. We often cherish our parents for the tangible gifts they’ve given us: the skills imparted, the manners instilled, the guidance offered. Yet, I believe this love doesn't automatically erase the pain they might have inflicted, be it emotional or physical. That "ugly" side, as you put it, doesn't simply vanish. It can leave indelible marks, shaping a child’s trauma, especially when a child is too young to comprehend why they might "deserve" such treatment.
The "selfishness" of first-time parents, as I see it, is indeed a double-edged sword. They strive to bring freedom and happiness to their child according to their own vision of what's best. But I have to wonder: how often does that vision truly align with what the child genuinely needs? Rarely, I suspect, does it align perfectly.
This chapter, for me, is fundamentally an experience. It plunges us into Yuki’s perspective on building a home and the profound struggles of becoming a parent. It serves as a stark reminder that while parents are learning, their actions, their very learning process, can have lasting, sometimes devastating, impacts on their children.
Another thought that surfaced while I was processing this chapter is the powerful sentiment: "The children that you brought into this world never wanted to be here in the first place." Children don't ask to be born; their existence is a matter of fate, or perhaps chance. Consequently, I feel it becomes the parents' profound responsibility to transform that initial lack of desire into a life their children can come to love and embrace.
The parent-child relationship is undeniably complex. Each side carries expectations and burdens that can clash with the other's ideal of family. Children, at their core, long for happiness, love, and genuine parental care. Parents, in turn, often desire recognition and appreciation for the sacrifices and care they've provided. Sometimes, these ideals don't mesh, creating a chasm that makes honest conversation and mutual understanding incredibly difficult. This very idea, I think, accidentally surfaced in this chapter: Yuki’s vision of a mutually supportive family, constantly caring for each other, isn't what Shima wants or perhaps even needs.
The dynamic between Yuki and Shima, and even with Yuki’s first husband, painfully illustrates how these conflicting ideals can fracture a family. Yuki's desire to bring happiness, specifically by nurturing Shima’s acting talent, wasn't something they could achieve harmoniously. It’s so hard to piece things together when neither side seems willing to compromise or truly understand the other. Yuki was undeniably harsh on Shima for pursuing acting, and her husband, it seems, couldn't sustain the family under that immense strain. Day by day, those unspoken resentments and bottled-up feelings festered until, inevitably, everything shattered. We witnessed their relationship crumble, leaving behind a heavy, oppressive weight, a house already broken and teetering on the brink of complete collapse.
In an attempt to bridge this gap, Yuki’s second husband steps in, trying, at least, to hold together the fragile threads of Yuki and Shima's relationship. Later, Yuki herself tries to mend things through the introduction of Shima's brother. But, as I see it, merely filling a gap doesn't equate to a solution. Both sides must actively work to understand the genesis of their breakdown. Holding it together becomes immensely difficult when the love that once bound them has dissipated. It’s not necessarily hate that replaces it, but an aching indifference, a persistent fog that resists clearing. It's profoundly difficult to accept actions taken against us by someone we loved and trusted. The pain isn't just that we were hurt; it’s that the hurt was inflicted by someone we held dear.
The opening pages of this chapter offer a glimpse into the relationship between Shima’s stepfather and Yuki. When his stepfather asked Shima if he remembered certain past conversations between him and Yuki, his stepfather affirmed that he did, holding those words as a promise. He simply wants Shima to know that, regardless of circumstances, he will be there for him, a listening ear, a source of support. He doesn't expect to be accepted as a father, but rather as a dependable adult Shima can lean on.
Mending a broken family is never simple. It requires time, immense effort, and inevitably involves missteps. Within family relationships, this difficulty is amplified. We often resist even minor changes within our homes: a shift in attitude, altered communication styles, the introduction of new family members. These changes can feel threatening, shaking the very foundations of our understanding of "family."
The line, "Because of you, I can give everything I have. Because I am your only existence here, I could do everything to protect you. I can sacrifice everything to let you shine. So please, my son—please save me too. Please let my life be worthy once again," is incredibly potent. To me, this reveals Yuki's complicated desires. She seems to want to prove that with her alone, Shima could achieve more than what she and her first husband managed together. But it's also a painful confession, I think, of how her jealousy and her need to compete with that past family dynamic have damaged everyone. She wants Shima to validate her, to show her jealousy was somehow justified, that she could "outdo" their past. It’s a bittersweet plea. And the latter part of her message, her dawning realization that instead of helping her son, she inflicted emotional wounds, hits even harder. This, to me, is one of the gravest errors a parent can make: turning their child into a barometer of their own parental worth. When that "proof" is absent, the parent’s identity and their role as caregiver can crumble.
The moment Yuki confessed to Shima, mentioning her hospital diagnosis, was when I realized the damage was too deep for easy fixes. Shima had already constructed his defenses, a way to insulate himself from her compliments, a way to prevent anger from taking root, because, in his mind, "it’s not worth it." No matter how earnestly she tries, how much she assures him of her change and her desire to make amends, it feels futile. Shima, it appears, chose neglect as his coping mechanism, while Yuki chose "fixing" as hers. But a pump riddled with holes, no matter how many patches are applied, will inevitably leak. The holes remain, merely covered.
"And since then, he doesn’t cry or smile at me anymore." This observation makes the conversation between mother and child feel almost impossibly fraught. Even simple expressions, like encouragement, seem blocked by an invisible, heavy barrier. Over time, Yuki has come to feel, "I don’t even know how to talk to him normally anymore." Divorce and single parenthood are inherently challenging, involving the burden of the past while trying to navigate the present. Yuki has lived it, endured it, and grown weary of it. She doesn't want that weight to burden Shima again.
If I recall the preceding chapters correctly, both Yuki and Shima were, in their own ways, trying to make the other happy. Yet, a stark contrast emerged. Yuki, I feel, placed excessive pressure on him, imposing her definition of "best" while overlooking his attempts to communicate his feelings through his actions. Beneath her "best for you" rhetoric lay her own fears and insecurities. Shima, on the other hand, was striving to make his mother proud and happy, constantly pushing himself in his acting to meet her standards. The conversation involving Taiga, Shima, and Yuki starkly reveals Yuki's profound misunderstanding. She perceived his actions as affecting her, failing to recognize that her own actions were the true source of his pain. Shima even tried to shield her, asking Taiga not to speak to her to prevent her from getting hurt. He never told her about the gossip surrounding them, all to protect her. But she didn't see it. She didn't grasp that Shima had been protecting her all along. It’s in these subtle, often unnoticed details that the truth surfaces: we frequently ignore what's happening until the pain becomes undeniable, forcing us to confront our own culpability.
But can we truly blame her? In some respects, perhaps not. The immense struggles of becoming a mother, then having to assume the role of a father as well, compounded by a lack of reliable support, placed an enormous burden on her. It’s understandable that she felt overwhelmed. Yet, in other ways, yes, I think she does bear responsibility. Because she didn’t strive to do better in the crucial aspect of connection. She never seemed to try stepping outside her protective shell to truly communicate with him, face to face, heart to heart.
However, one thing I admire about her character is her eventual acknowledgment that her flaws were hurting him. As I noted earlier, being a first-time parent is challenging. For me, the ideal isn't to be a "perfect" parent, but a "good" parent: one who can recognize their flaws and commit to changing them. Indeed, Yuki’s journey speaks to the experience of many mothers who, in their sometimes clumsy and "blind insistence" that they know "the right way to raise a child," unintentionally inflict hurt. The saving grace, and the hope for characters like Yuki, lies in their eventual realization—sooner or later—that they have erred. They strive, then, to understand, driven by a genuine desire for their children's happiness, ultimately placing that well-being above their own aspirations.
It's a common human trait, I think, that we're not always comfortable with compliments, especially from those closest to us. We carry our ego like a shield against the vulnerability compliments can evoke. Parents, too, are often afraid of making mistakes, or even of being praised by their children, because they're acutely aware that any perceived flaw might shatter the idealized image their child holds. But herein lies the contradiction: parents may think this way, yet the child often already perceives the flaws. It's this misplaced confidence in the protective shield that ultimately hurts everyone. And it's not just the children who suffer; others, like Ririka, who had no direct relationship with Yuki, bore significant collateral damage from these events.
The most traumatic and deeply ingrained scars often originate in childhood. Damage, unfortunately, tends to beget more damage. Even though Yuki eventually realized her mistakes and wanted to fix them, I feel it was too late, because the pain had already sunk its roots deep into Shima’s heart. It's like trying to reassemble an onion after peeling it layer by layer; it simply can't be done. Healing takes time, sometimes an agonizingly long time, and immense effort.
The most painful part, for me, is the creation of a "monster" of defense within Shima. And the truly tragic element? Yuki herself was its creator. This brings me back to the parallels with Mary Shelley's Frankenstein. The relationship between Victor Frankenstein and his creature mirrors, in many ways, the fragile, painful bond between Yuki and Shima. Victor, driven by ambition, animated his creature, intending it to be extraordinary, perhaps a reflection of his own perceived greatness. Yet, the moment the creature opened its eyes, Victor's aspirations were eclipsed by fear and revulsion. He rejected his own creation, abandoning it without guidance, warmth, or understanding. Yuki’s relationship with Shima carries a similar tragic weight.
Like Victor, Yuki's desire to mold her son into something that would validate her own worth led to unintentional, yet profound, harm. She hoped to shape him into a shining star, a being who would reflect her sacrifices back to the world. But in doing so, she overlooked his fragile humanity, his own needs, fears, and his individual voice. The creature's agony stemmed not from its supposedly monstrous form, but from its creator's rejection, a rejection that taught it unworthiness of love. Shima, too, learned to shield himself from pain by suppressing his emotions, his tears and smiles, against the very person who first, inadvertently, taught him to feel unworthy.
Both Victor and Yuki ultimately faced the consequences of their creations. The creature’s rage and sorrow became a testament to Victor's failure as a "parent," just as Shima’s silent defenses became Yuki’s mirror, reflecting the loneliness and wounds she had inflicted. The monsters in both narratives were not born, but made, layer by layer, word by word, moment by moment. And in both tales, the creators' attempts to mend the damage, to realize their folly, arguably came too late, because what had been broken had already learned to defend itself from further pain.
However, changes take time, and now, this "monster" within Shima is beginning to realize he doesn't have to be alone anymore. This is where Shima's path diverges significantly from that of Frankenstein's Creature. While the Creature remained profoundly isolated, his pleas for companionship and understanding met with universal horror and rejection, Shima, with this dawning awareness of not being alone, finds the courage to confront all that has happened to him. He begins to face "it" not with the Creature's escalating fear, hatred, or desire for vengeance, but with a growing empathy. The love pouring in from those around him—a stark contrast to the Creature's desolation—the knowledge that people will support him unconditionally, even from someone like his stepfather who doesn’t demand recognition, gives him the power to take a step forward, to become a better person.
Unlike the Creature, whose potential for goodness was systematically crushed by abandonment, Shima can start to move at the same pace as those around him and, crucially, gain the strength to look back at his past and accept its vulnerability. It's only when he truly realizes he is loved, I believe, that he can revisit the past, let it go with a sense of peace, and understand that he isn't solely to blame. He no longer needs to carry the weight of all mistakes or see himself as the villain of his own story, a fate the Creature could not escape, ultimately internalizing his "monstrosity." Shima just needs to be himself, to open up more.
Through the multitude of experiences during his high school years, by encountering so many different moments, he has begun to find himself and reclaim his "humanity." This reclamation is key; where the Creature's narrative is one of humanity lost or denied, Shima's is one of humanity rediscovered. He now aspires to be someone trustworthy, a better person, free from harsh judgment. His beauty, I think, lies not just in his external appearance, but in this rediscovered "humanity." Bringing back "humanity" signifies his desire to forgive himself and to "be" forgiven for his mistakes—a mutual forgiveness largely impossible in Victor and the Creature's destructive cycle. Inviting his mom to this year’s cultural festival is, to me, a significant step in mending their fractured relationship, an act of reconstructive hope entirely absent from the tragic finality of Frankenstein.
As the curtain rises, I hope this play marks a turning point, allowing Shima to speak with his mother again. An embrace between them could signify the start of accepting and forgiving the painful, imperfect memories they both carry, transforming what was 'forgettable' into a shared path toward healing.
Ultimately, it's vital to hold in mind that while it may indeed be a mother's first experience navigating the labyrinth of motherhood, the words uttered and the wounds inflicted still etch themselves onto the child. Trauma, so often, isn't born from the event itself, but rather from the way it was met—or unmet—by support and understanding at that critical juncture. Moreover, there's an inherent imbalance in expecting a child, with their nascent understanding of the world, to fully empathize with the complex tapestry of adult experience. The adult, having once been a child, possesses a broader empathetic lens, and with it, perhaps, a greater responsibility to bridge that experiential gap. This consideration rightly keeps the child's enduring experience at the forefront, even as we acknowledge the parent's own journey of learning and growth.