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A Mother’s Chronicle of Listening, Learning, and the Light of Words

Foreword
This is not merely the story of a child’s language development—it is the unfolding of a soul. From the moment he was cradled in the womb, music, words, and images began weaving themselves into his world. Each stage, from his first “a-yi ai” to the day he chose time over prestige, traces a path of curiosity, empathy, and self-directed growth.

These pages gather moments—sometimes luminous, sometimes tear-streaked—that reveal the shaping of a mind that listens deeply, remembers vividly, and speaks with conviction. They are also a mother’s record: of watching, of guiding, of stepping aside when the child’s own compass points the way.

In sharing this sketch, I offer not a formula, but an invitation—to look closely at the small, steady ways a child can become fluent not only in language, but in the language of life.

Before Going Abroad
Before I became pregnant, I asked God for a sign. His promise came in the form of the oxalis plants in our home—every day I would find four- or five-leaf clovers, and one day, the flowers suddenly bloomed all at once, as if offering a silent congratulations. Not long after, I was indeed expecting a child.
I resigned from my job, determined to nurture this life before birth as though he were already here—speaking to him, sharing the world with him. Every day I played classical music: for choir, he especially loved the Vienna Boys’ Choir; for symphonies, Brahms was his favorite; and he seemed able to listen quietly to almost every melody Mozart ever wrote.
During my pregnancy, I served as a judge for music competitions. Whenever a choir sang out of tune, he would stir uneasily inside me; when the pitch was restored, he would gently keep time to the beat. His father’s voice was his most beloved bass. Whenever he lounged cross-legged in my womb and pressed uncomfortably against me, all it took was his father’s quiet words—“Put your legs back”—and he would comply at once.
I was convinced that a child in the womb can hear, can feel, can remember. So I went to art exhibitions and described colors and brushstrokes to him; I read aloud to him, never mind how much he could absorb—I wanted to pour in as much as I could.

At Three Months Old
At three months old, he sat in my lap, still unable to speak, yet already responding with sounds to the call of love. One day, I pointed to a piece of calligraphy on the wall—“Love is patient…”—and softly read it to him. He seemed to notice that one particular character kept recurring. Each time I repeated it, his eyes or his smile would answer back.
So I pointed again and again to the character for “love,” reading it aloud to him. He began to make sounds—“A-yi, a-yi.” A few days later, mustering the same strength he used for nursing, he pushed out his very first phrase: a-yi ai—“love.” It was the first word he ever learned.
At five months, a college student babysitter was caring for him. Without thinking, she began to play the piano. After a moment, he turned his head and said clearly, “Auntie, don’t play.” The young “auntie” froze and stared at him. He repeated, “Auntie, don’t play.”
A few days later, the upstairs neighbor—also an “auntie”—passed by our stairs and saw that he was still awake. She said, “Last night I came home late and saw you weren’t asleep yet.” Thinking of how his father had urged him to bed, lightly patting his bottom, he solemnly replied, “Daddy hit.”

At One Year Old
At one year old, his world was filled with a single question: What is this? Anything—objects, signs, symbols—he would point to and ask, and I would answer again and again, and he would remember again and again.
At a year and a half, on a bus ride into Taipei, he sat by the window reading one shop sign after another—recognizing not only the words, but also remembering where he had seen them before.
At thirteen months, he became a big brother. When his baby brother was nursing, he would wait patiently with a fresh diaper in hand; after the change, he would take the soiled one to the trash without being asked. If his brother left milk unfinished, he would say, “Children in Africa have no milk—don’t waste it. I’ll finish it for you.”
One day, he told his brother, “Today you go hug Auntie, I’m going to hug Mommy.” He always found a way to say it so his brother couldn’t refuse.
Because of his influence, his six-month-old brother learned to sing before he ever spoke. Before the age of two and a half, the two of them were immersed in the world of the children’s opera The Kingdom of Little Ponds, often performing the entire play in duet from memory.

At Two and a Half – Arriving in America
At two and a half, he was instantly charmed by a Christian Chinese “Auntie” he met in America. He wanted to learn piano from her, not only because of her gentleness, but also because her car had a rear windshield wiper—something he had never seen before.
Six months later, at a recital, he performed Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star Variations with pure, ringing clarity. The audience erupted in applause, and someone called out, “Encore!” He froze and looked at his teacher. She, unprepared for another piece, simply said, “Play it again!” He frowned and replied, “I didn’t miss a single note—why should I play it again?” The words had barely left his mouth when a single large tear rolled down his cheek.
In America, the two brothers were known for not being picky eaters. Friends would often ask, “Can we invite you over so our kids can learn from you?” One day, a group of Aunties were lamenting, “Our kids won’t eat this, won’t eat that.” An Zhu overheard, looked back at me, and whispered, “Mommy, I wish I had something I didn’t like to eat, but I really can’t think of anything.”
At the table, with every bite, they would softly say, “It’s delicious. Thank you, Auntie.” Their sweet smiles won both admiration and affection. At one gathering, an Auntie asked with a laugh, “You say everything tastes good—what does your mommy cook for you at home?” Sensing the possible awkwardness in her words, An Zhu glanced at me, then replied slowly and deliberately, “Mommy, why is it that Auntie’s cooking is delicious, but yours is nutritious?”

From Dreams on the Wall to My Book
One day, he told me he wanted to draw on the wall—because there would be no limits—but the landlord forbade it. Later, as we watched Peking Opera together, he turned to his younger brother and said, “Do you know why in Chinese opera they hang a big curtain on stage? Because the landlord won’t let you draw on the wall.”
I asked him to write a letter to his father who was away. He dictated while I typed: “Daddy, do you know? Leonardo da Vinci was very good at painting, so the Italians let him paint on walls.” Halfway through, he turned to me and continued, “When I grow up, I want to study in Italy, because there they allow you to paint on walls.” It was a letter to his father, yet in truth it was a confession to me—he was willing to pay the price for his dream.
I took them to buy large sheets of paper, plastered them on the walls, and let them draw to their hearts’ content. I also printed out his letter and posted it on the wall, and he began to love reading his own work. Later, I typed out familiar stories for him, replacing words with symbols or pictures for him to “read.” Over time, he began to create his own versions of My Book: turning The Little Frog Finds a Wife into The Little Pig Finds a Wife or The Turtle Finds a Wife, and so on.
His vocabulary grew rapidly as a result, and soon he was reading books from the library on his own.

”The Psychological Assessment

An Zhu had always dreamed of riding the yellow school bus, but children under five could not enter kindergarten. Fearing that I might graduate early and he would have to return to Taiwan, I let him take the psychological assessment for early admission. That whole morning, he cooperated fully with the psychologist, showing no signs of fatigue. A few exchanges have stayed vivid in my memory—

The psychologist asked, “What is something happy and something sad have in common?”
He replied, “You should know they’re very different, but since you asked, I’ll tell you—they’re both feelings.”

Another time, the psychologist said, “If we have a dozen candies and split them evenly between us, how many do we each get?”
“Six,” he answered at once, then added, “But it would be better if you asked it differently. You could say: If each person gets six, how many is that for the two of us together?”

In another question, the psychologist asked, “Why should you wash your hands before eating?” He looked troubled, hesitating: “Hands will get dirty… your face will get dirty…” but never once said “you’ll get sick.” On the way home, he explained, “He’s a doctor. If I tell him ‘illness enters through the mouth,’ wouldn’t that be an insult to his profession?

Montessori Kindergarten – A Poetic Narrative
During our time in America, every night before bed I read the children an English Bible. An Zhu had a remarkable memory and knew the stories by heart.
In his Montessori kindergarten, when the teacher introduced a country, she would often hold up a puzzle piece shaped like that country. He discovered that to truly know a country, one must start with its geography. From then on, he developed a deep fascination with the globe, and in his free time, he would recite the names of countries around the world.
One day, the teacher held up the puzzle piece for Egypt. He immediately identified it and said earnestly, “That country is not good.” When the teacher asked why, he confidently began telling the story of Moses leading the Israelites out of Egypt, fluent and assured. The teacher was astonished—not only because he was a foreign student, but because he showed such deep understanding of history. She asked, “How do you know so much?”
He replied, “That’s why people should read a lot of books.”

The Reading Contest
After passing the assessment and qualifying for admission, the very first thing he did was join the community library’s reading contest. The prize was a giant tub of ice cream. Contestants ranged from elementary to high school students, while he had not yet even entered kindergarten. Without a teacher to check his progress, he simply went to the librarian, asked her to be his verifier, borrowed books to read at home, and returned to read them aloud to her for a signature. After collecting fifty books, he claimed his prize.
When his father came home, he didn’t believe he had read so many. He pulled a random page and asked about a single word—An Zhu didn’t know it. His father was a little disappointed. I said, “Give him the whole book.” From beginning to end, he read it fluently. “I don’t know every single word,” he explained, “I have to read the whole book to understand.”
In that moment, I realized—he was reading for the story’s meaning as a whole. What he read was not isolated words, but the soul of an entire book.

Observations from the Bible and His Calling
He loved listening to Bible stories before bed. After we moved to America, we obtained a children’s edition of the English Bible, and began reading it systematically. I only asked that he understand the stories; I didn’t worry about vocabulary.
One day, while reading the Book of Judges, he exclaimed, “This story has a pattern that keeps repeating—the Israelites are attacked, they cry out to God for help, God sends a judge to lead them, and then they make the same mistake again.” He asked, “How did they not notice?”
I replied, “Because they were living in the moment.”
“Then why can I see it?”
“Because you’re reading history.”
He thought for a moment and said, “I want to be a historian, to help people remember so they won’t make the same mistake again.”
At the age of five, he finished reading the Bible for the first time, overjoyed and waiting for a reward. I looked at him and said, “Kneel and thank God. Many adults never finish reading it in their entire lives. For God to let you finish at age five is a great grace.”
Before we returned to Taiwan, I asked what he most wanted to do. His eyes lit up: “I can teach little kids English—and teach them to read the Bible.” What mattered most to him was that so many people live their whole lives without ever having the chance to read it.

Back in Taiwan – The Call of Language
Before we returned to Taiwan, he had already finished reading the Bible once, and had made a vow—to help more people understand God’s Word.
Upon our arrival, my colleagues wanted their children to play with him, so they formed a class for him to teach, even preparing to help him keep order.
Standing on a little chair, he began telling the story of Genesis. His voice was clear and resonant: “Do you know what God used to create the heavens and the earth?” The children shook their heads, all eyes on him.
He opened both hands, drew a phrase from his mouth: “His Word.” Then he tossed his hands outward—“Let there be light!” His voice seemed to echo from the very depths of the story.
He wasn’t reciting Scripture word for word; he was using imagery, rhythm, and expression to make the creation scene come alive. The children listened without blinking, some even tilting their heads toward the sky as if they could truly see the light. The parents, who had planned to help him manage the class, forgot all about their role, absorbed until the very end.
In that moment, he wasn’t merely “teaching” the Bible—he was using language and conviction to summon a world into being.
The Piano and the Awakening of Inner Motivation
After we returned to Taiwan, I accepted a friend’s invitation to open a piano class and organized a recital.
His peer, John, played superbly. Parents crowded around John’s mother, asking how she taught him. She replied, “I make him practice two hours a day.”
An Zhu watched this exchange intently. Not long after, he came to me, his eyes brimming with tears: “Why?” he asked. “Why have you never made me practice two hours a day?”
All the parents turned toward me, curious about how I would handle his emotions. I led him to the piano.
“Whose piano is this?” I asked.
“Yours,” he replied.
“When I’m playing, and you want to play too, do I let you?”
“Yes.”
“When I say you can borrow it for five minutes, and you play for more than ten, do I mind?”
“No.”
“This piano is such a beautiful instrument, something many people could never hope to own—why would I force you to play it? Wouldn’t that be an insult to it?”
He nodded. His father came over, trying to comfort him: “Give it up—you know your mom will never make you do that.”
From that day on, he began finding time to practice on his own. He understood that the weight of choice was his to carry.

The Astonishing Moment in Vocal Music
One day, I was teaching a student to sing the Queen of the Night’s aria from The Magic Flute. He sat quietly nearby, listening.
After the lesson ended, he picked up a score—pretending it was The Magic Flute—and said, “I want to sing that song you just taught.”
He had never learned the piece before, but as soon as he began, the melody flowed out—pitch perfect, with a sweet and natural tone. Even the high notes were effortless. And he remembered the whole thing after hearing it just once.
In that instant, I knew for certain: his sensitivity to sound and his sensitivity to language were two expressions of the very same gift.

The Bread Maker and “The Manual for Raising Children”
At the age of five, he wanted a bread maker. I told him I would only buy it for him if he could read the manual, and if from then on he would be the one making all the bread at home.
He agreed, and after a week he finally understood the instructions and baked bread with his own hands.
As we sat eating the bread together, he said, “It takes a week to learn how to make bread.” I paused, unsure what he meant. Afraid I might misunderstand, he quickly added, “When I grow up, I want to be a father. I’ll have children, and I’ll teach them as they grow. If it takes a week to learn to make bread, then raising a child must take much longer. Please buy me the manual for raising children.”
From that day on, he stopped reading storybooks and became passionate about reading encyclopedias—determined to finish every volume in a set.

Self-Directed Learning and the Dawn of Japanese
When he entered elementary school, he was quiet in class. The teacher described him as an observer.
One day, he asked me, “Why do adults, when they see children have free time, always try to use it up?”
I asked why, and he explained that after school, his classmates all had to “go to work.”
“Are they very poor?” I asked.
“No,” he replied. “They have to pay to go to work.”
Only then did I realize that by “work” he meant cram school.
He told me solemnly, “If you ever want me to learn something, just tell me and I’ll learn it myself. You must not send me to cram school.” I have kept that promise ever since. Whatever he wanted to learn, he arranged for himself.
Because he loved watching Detective Conan, he taught himself Japanese. He wanted very much to teach me Japanese too, often speaking to me in Japanese and pointing out which grammar points I should notice.
His way of teaching made me realize another truth about education—when a child shares knowledge, he is also reconstructing his own learning.

The Model Student and the Happiness of Being “Ordinary”
After transferring into the bilingual department, he met a teacher who accepted each child’s different pace—there were even five different ability groups in the same class. Gradually, he made up for the semester of gaps in his learning.
At the end of the term, he received a certificate for “Model Student.” He felt regret: “I tried so hard, but the teacher gave all the awards with rankings to others. I only got Model Student.”
“What is a Model Student?” he asked. I explained, “The ranked awards went to others, but this one is special—it means you did your best in what you were meant to do.”
In second grade, when American specialists came to the school for assessments, a volunteer mother saw his results and spread the rumor that he was a genius. This troubled him.
“Mommy, what is a genius?” he asked.
“A genius is someone who has great potential in certain areas and learns very quickly,” I replied.
Relieved, he patted his chest. “Good thing I’m not.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Because, Mommy, I’m good in every subject. I’m very normal.”
From then on, he was content to be an ordinary person.

The Breakdown in Second Grade and the Transfer
In second grade, his original teacher clashed with the school over refusing to keep the whole class at the same pace, and was replaced by a new teacher—from abroad, yet highly skilled in rote teaching.
One day, he brought his science experiment notebook to remind the teacher they hadn’t done a single experiment all semester. The teacher said, “No need, all the answers are in the textbook—just memorize them.” He strongly disagreed, having always trusted my words that “learning should pursue understanding,” and believing that this was not real understanding.
The teacher gave no recess time. He would “run” past the slide to the bathroom, then rush back to the classroom. Life grew tighter: out the door at seven in the morning, home after five in the evening, homework often dragging until nine-thirty, and pushed to bed before ten.
One day, he finally broke down in his room—tears and questions flooding out like a torrent:
“Why do adults arrange everything for children?
Why don’t they know what children actually need?
What’s the point of a life like this?
I’d be better off dead!”
I held him close, and when he had finished, I asked, “What is it you want most?”
He answered, “Time. My time.”
In that moment, I arranged for his transfer—leaving behind one of the most prestigious schools in Taiwan, stepping onto a road whose end we could not yet see.