When I was four years old, my mother took me up the mountain to cut pig grass for the first time.

The mountain path was steep and difficult to walk on. I wore grass shoes that exposed my toes and stumbled after my mother.

Mosquitoes buzzed around me incessantly, and in no time, my exposed feet were covered in several large welts from mosquito bites.

I was so itchy that I vigorously rubbed the soles of my feet against the shoes.

But the itchiness just couldn't be stopped.

Unable to bear it any longer, I squatted down and used my hands to scratch the areas on my feet where the mosquitoes had bitten me, scratching forcefully.

It was only when my feet turned swollen and red, with blood oozing from the bitten areas, that the sensation of pain and itchiness eased a bit.

But when I lifted my head again, my mother was nowhere to be seen.

There were only large footprints imprinted on the soft soil beneath my feet, heading towards the mountain.

I felt extremely frightened and sat on the ground, crying loudly.

The heart-wrenching sound echoed through the forest, startling the birds as they flew away from the trees in all directions.

When I cried until my voice became hoarse and couldn't produce any sound, I finally saw my mother coming down from the small path with a basket on her back.

I stood up and ran over, embracing my mother's leg, smearing snot and tears on her pants.

My mother frowned and pushed me away, showing a disgusted expression.

"Useless girl, you managed to get lost even when following along. If I had known you were so worthless, I should have drowned you in the river!"

I stumbled and rolled into the nearby grass, with the thorns of Burdock grazing my face and causing pain.

But I clenched my lips, enduring the pain, and dared not cry out.

Because I knew that if I cried again, I would be beaten even more severely.

"Crying, crying, you can't do anything right and still have the nerve to cry!"

My mother scolded for a while, then pulled out a sickle from the basket and yanked me up from the pile of grass, throwing me into the basket.

From then on, she carried me up that section of the mountain path.

When we reached halfway up the mountain, my mother pointed to different types of grass and told me which ones the pigs could eat and which ones we should not touch.

She explained everything around us, then turned and asked if I remembered.

I nodded forcefully, saying that I remembered, afraid that if I spoke too slowly, I would be subjected to another round of beatings.

From then on, cutting pig grass became the daily task that I had to do without fail.