Every morning, my mother wakes up well before me, prepares my lunch, and takes off. Every evening, after eating out, my mom comes home, washes up, closes her bedroom door, and is asleep by 9PM. We live in the same space, my mother and I. But for decades now, we are like strangers under one roof. The only exchanges are the meals she cooks and leaves for me on our dining room table. No hellos, no goodbyes, and no “I love you.” Silence permeates our house as I watch her, knowing that beneath the deafening silence lies a secret that weighs heavily on her, keeping her from speaking; knowing that behind her tightly pursed lips is a shame so overbearing that it suffocates her. One day, I finally summoned up the courage to sit her down and make her talk. My camera becomes a gateway and a tool in prying open the Pandora’s box and capturing my mother’s secrets. But am I ready to hear what she has to say? Are we ready to face what’s been buried for so long?​