"I'm only doing this for your own good!" On the other end of the line, his mother's voice was filled with disappointment and confusion.

David hung up, exhausted. This was the fifth argument he'd had with his family since deciding to quit his civil service job. For him, giving up the 'iron rice bowl' to become a freelance photographer was a carefully considered choice, true to his heart. But to his parents, it was tantamount to self-sabotage.

Every call started with "We're your parents, we would never harm you" and ended with "You've let us down so much." His father hadn't even spoken to him in days.

David felt suffocated. He loved his parents, and he knew they loved him, but right now, that love felt like a heavy chain, holding him back. He yearned for their understanding and support, not daily arguments and emotional blackmail.

"Is it wrong to chase your dream?" he sat in his dark room, staring at his unfinished photography portfolio, feeling more alone than ever.

During a chat with a friend, he poured out his frustrations. His friend listened, then sent him a link. "Maybe you can try this," the friend said. "It doesn't give you answers, but it might give you a different way of thinking."

It was an online divination site. David never believed in these things, but the second part of his friend's sentence made him curious. He clicked it open and typed in his question: "How can I make my parents understand my choice?"

The result was "Chi Kou" (Red Mouth), a term implying conflict. David gave a bitter smile, thinking how accurate that was. He read the interpretation:

"Words become knives when the heart is anxious. You are anxious to prove yourself; they are anxious to protect you. Though your positions differ, the love is the same. If you want the ice to melt, do not attack it with fire. Try sharing your 'lens,' not debating your 'decision.' Let them see the world you see, rather than hear the words you resist."

"Let them see the world I see..." The phrase struck a chord with David.

He realized that all he had been doing was 'debating' the rightness of his decision with his parents. He was constantly explaining why he didn't want the stable job, but he rarely showed them how wonderful the world he did want was.

He had been defensive, not inviting.

That weekend, he didn't call his parents to argue. Instead, he selected the twelve best photos he had taken over the past year, had them printed, packaged them carefully, and mailed them home. He included a short note:

"Mom and Dad, I know you're worried about me. I don't want to argue anymore. These twelve photos are the twelve months of the year through my eyes. I want to invite you to see. This is why I chose this work. This is the world that makes me feel happy and fulfilled."

A week later, he got a call from his father. His tone was no longer harsh and accusatory, but hesitant and curious. "That photo of the starry sky on the mountaintop... how did you take it?"

It was a long conversation. For the first time, David wasn't impatient. He described in detail how he had pitched a tent on the summit, endured the cold, and waited for six hours to get that shot. He talked about the awe and emotion he felt when he saw the star-filled sky.

At the end of the call, his father was silent for a long time, then said, "Just... be safe out there on your own."

There was no explicit word of support, but David knew the iceberg was beginning to melt. He hadn't changed his parents' minds, but by sharing, he had brought them a step closer to his world. And that single step was the beginning of understanding.