soul log

This could not be happening.

It could not be true.

I was refusing to believe that hundreds of my mom’s written articles were gone. They had disappeared eternally by a press of a button.

So this is what happens, I thought to myself. This is what happens when a backup goes wrong. This is what happens.

My mother could sense my feelings. She looked at me with worried eyes. I could see suppressed tears.

And I wished I could help.

—

A few days ago, my mom’s computer suddenly stopped working after my dad watched a few videos on the computer. It would refuse to start up. We were all stunned, and my mom called in anxiously from her business trip in China to check on us.

My mother was a writer. She had been writing for more than 10 years. If she lost all her articles, it would be a huge blow to her. One that might be large enough to contemplate suicide for.

I told my mother I would fix it. I took out CDs, I fiddled with it, and I managed to get all of her files down onto another computer. It seemed safe.

Last night, I browsed through the backup a few times; I made sure everything was there. I briefly looked into my mother’s folder. There were a few files in her directory, and I peered into a folder. Files inside.

That was good enough for me. After all, if there were files here, then they should all be here, right?

I told my dad all the files were safe. And my finger pressed down on the button that would wipe my mother’s computer of all files, and start over. Hopefully, it would kill the virus.

But what I didn’t realize was how unexpected things could be.

—

My mother was sitting in a chair, crying.

It was very disturbing to me. I didn’t know what to say. My brain couldn’t put words together.

My mom sobbed. “Gone… it’s all gone,” she said, repeating it over and over again.

I was speechless. Wordlessly, I pulled out a chair and sat down.

“Sorry.” It was the only word I could say.

“I’m sorry.”

“Gg-gone… a month of writing, all gone.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s not y-your fault…”

I swallowed some saliva that had been gathering inside my mouth.

The image of my mother, sobbing, dabbing her eyes furiously with a napkin.

The image of my mother, crying, thinking about suicide.

The image of my mother, wishing everything could be normal.

I wish I could do something. But it was too late.

—

What had happened was simple, and all the more deadly by it: the backup system I had used did not support Chinese characters in file names.

My mom is a Chinese writer. She writes in Chinese, her folders are in Chinese, and her files are in Chinese. But some of them weren’t. And during my brief check, I had looked at those that were in Chinese.

And I had pressed the ENTER key.

—

My finger loomed over the “Enter” key. Pressing it would wipe the hard drive. Pressing it would eradicate the virus that had gotten on the computer. I took a look at the backup. Files there. It was now or never. I always had this hesitation when I formatted hard drives.

Everything was backed up. What was to fear?

Nothing, I told myself. Still, something nagged at the back of my mind.

Arg.

I hit the enter key.