Nobody understands when a woman makes a choice to marry and have children, in one way her life begins, but in another way, it stops. You build a life of details, and you just stop and stay steady, so that your children can move.
Maybe every man has had two such women, at least two. Married to a red rose, over time, the red becomes a mosquito blood stain on the wall, while the white remains "moonlight before the bed"; married to a white rose, the white becomes a grain of sticky rice on the clothes, while the red remains a cinnabar mole on the heart.
