Sunlit Dimples: A Mother's Journey of Light and Love

Bath, an ancient city founded in 43 AD, home to Britain's only Roman baths, and a place where Jane Austen lived for a long time.
©Jade Kayo Miki

I still smile when I recall my mother’s favorite birth story: as I entered the world, I cried so loudly that the doctor rushed to my grandmother and exclaimed, “She’s got those two!” Proudly, Grandma boasted, “My daughter has a son!”—only to discover moments later that the “two” were in fact my cheek dimples.

Those dimples became my childhood trademark. During Spring Festivals, delighted relatives would pinch my cheeks—playful teasing that I tolerated with good humor. Meanwhile, I remained blissfully unaware of my worsening eyesight; it wasn’t until a routine checkup that a brisk doctor announced, “Your child is almost totally blind.” My mother, ever composed, brushed aside her fear and quipped, “People grow taller over time, and surely vision must grow too.”

For the next decade, she spun whimsical tales of a silvery film on the eyeball that would thicken with every book I read, promising clearer sight. She even wove in martial-arts lore: clear vision was a hard-won prize, won only by those who could outwit fate and feign ignorance when confronted with injustice.

I can only imagine the sacrifices she made—trading her ballet slippers for cab keys, shaving her head, and gaining twenty kilos—all to protect me and our little family. To keep fear at bay, she became our daylight: spinning “One Thousand and One Nights” stories that shone hope onto my cloudy retinas.

It wasn’t until years later that I truly saw beauty: the warmth of sunlight like a gentle feather, the scent of sun-kissed fabrics, and the simple wonder of a blue-sky summer noon. My mother simply said, “Today is perfect,” and in that moment I learned that the truest form of light is love itself.