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The Jealous Daughter and the Siphon Coffee Pen
The Plot Thickens
As I read about the pen, my mind starts spinning. “This is it,” I think. This pen could be a special addition to her collection, as it is a symbol of our joint love for coffee and writing. The wood grain would remind her of the coffee table around which we used to sit, the retro design-our love for all things vintage. The custom engraving? That’s not just a personalized touch but a declaration of our bond. I’ll make sure every time she picks up that pen, she’ll think of me. I’m already envisioning it:
- “To the world’s best mom (from your clingiest daughter).”
- “Every word you write, think of me, Mom.”
The Scheme Unfolds
I imagine her morning coffee routine. Normally, she sips her brew and stares off into the abyss of her thoughts. But not anymore. Not with this pen. Now, she’ll feel the warmth of the wood grain beneath her fingers and remember the daughter who made it all possible. The retro coffee cup pen stand will sit on her desk like a tiny shrine to our bond.
And when she writes? Oh, when she writes. Every letter she scrawls will flow as smoothly as the ink, each word whispering, “Tanya loves you.”
I plot my purchase like a mad scientist brewing the ultimate potion, carefully considering every detail. I weigh my engraving options. Do I go with bold Microsoft JhengHei for visibility or elegant Standard Script to tug at her artistic heartstrings? I even consider buying two pens—one for her and one for me—because matching accessories scream “inseparable.” The possibilities are endless, and I’m determined to get it just right.
The Jealousy Rises
But then, one of those darker thoughts creeps in. What if… Mom doesn’t love it? What if she sets it aside like she did with that scarf I knit in high school? Just the thought of her setting it aside-an intimate symbol of our bond-sends me plummeting into a pit of irrational jealousy. The thought of another person touching our pen, let alone complimenting it, fills me with a sense of loss and betrayal. I spiral into a pit of irrational jealousy at the mere idea of another person touching our pen.
No. That won’t happen. I’ll make sure it won’t. I’m determined to make my mom feel loved and appreciated, and this pen is my way of doing that.
The Obsession Takes Hold
The more I think about it, the more I realize that I need this pen too. Not just for my mom but for me. If she loves it, I’ll love it. If she doesn’t love it, I’ll take it back and use it to guilt-trip her for life.
I hit “add to cart” with the kind of determination that could move mountains. I even choose the American Black Oak finish because it sounds fancy, and my mom deserves fancy.
The engraving? Simple and direct: “Mom’s coffee, Mom’s pen, Mom’s world.”
As I eagerly await the package’s arrival, I rehearse my delivery speech. “Mom, this pen is an embodiment of us. You, the coffee lover. Me, the clingy daughter who refuses to let you write a single word without thinking of me.”
The Emotional Meltdown
Finally, when the pen comes, I find myself tearing into the box like a child on Christmas morning. It’s not just a pen, of course-it’s the physical incarnation of the bond between me and my friend. It’s gorgeous. It smells like nostalgia and sophistication, and I’m overcome enough that I almost sob.
I present it to my mom with the subtlety of a game show host unveiling the grand prize. “This,” I say, “isn’t just a pen. It is us, too. It is love, memories and coffee rolled into one.”
She laughs, probably thinking I’m ridiculous, but I don’t care. When she holds the pen for the first time, I see it: a flicker of emotion in her eyes. She gets it.
And just like that, the world feels right again. I feel so relieved and joyful as a means to see my mom appreciating the pen. It is a small gesture, but to me, it means the world. She runs her fingers over the wood grain, reads the engraving with a smile; then, to my surprise, she picks up the pen and starts writing. It was one of those moments that I will never forget.
Preamble
Growing up, my mom wasn’t the type to care about gifts wrapped in ribbons or tied with shiny bows. No, she was far too grounded for that. A simple hand-drawn card, scribbled with love and lopsided hearts, could light up her face brighter than the sun piercing through rainy clouds. That’s all it ever took.
She is Taiwan’s most respectable scholar—A woman whose words could shatter the pride of proud men and build bridges for the lost. Her room was more of a labyrinth of books than a room walled in bound volumes of wisdom whose spines were cracked with age and devotion. The smell of old paper and ink reeked in every corner as from an altar to knowledge itself. But to me? Back then, those books meant nothing.
I hated studying. I despised it with a passion so fierce, whereby up until now, I failed to understand how I struggled through my master’s degree. To me, books were never companions; they were captors, always staring at me with demands to focus, learn, and memorize. I never understood how she could love them so much.
There was a time—an embarrassing time—I even called her a hoarder. I remember rolling my eyes dramatically and saying, “Mom, do you really need another book? They’re just collecting dust!” I was so wrapped up in my own shallowness, so obsessed with the tangible, the immediate, the shiny. I couldn’t see the treasure she was curating.
It wasn’t until I watched this one movie—a story about an Ivy League student and a scholar—that my shallow bubble burst. The movie had one give a book to the other, and it was like the world had stopped. That one second was so personal, so sacrosanct; it really knocked me off my pedestal of ignorance. A book wasn’t just an object; it was a world, a bridge, a connection-a declaration of respect.
I sat there, gutted by realization. I thought of all the times I dismissed her passion, dismissed her, with casual ignorance. I thought of how I had labelled her—a hoarder, as if her books were clutter as if they weren’t the essence of who she was.
And then came the regret, thick and suffocating. I regretted my blindness, my vanity, my utter inability to value something just because it didn’t hold value to me. I regretted the years I didn’t spend asking my mom about those books, the ones that meant so much to her, the ones she probably clutched late at night, searching for solace, for answers, for inspiration. I regretted not seeing those books as her companions, her legacy, and her love story with the world.
Now, as I sit at my desk, staring at the coffee pen I’ve made for her, I can’t help but laugh at myself—childish, jealous, desperate me—plotting how to make her think of me every time she writes. She doesn’t need a flashy gift or a grand gesture. She never has. But this pen, with its ode to timelessness and art, feels right. Maybe it’s not a book, but it’s a tool for stories, for thoughts, for emotions, for her to pour herself onto the page.
It could be my way of saying, “I see it now, Mom. I finally see it.”
