Always Home

Compared to the tension during the preparation period, the three days of exams felt surprisingly ordinary.

If there was any difference, it was that the parents of examinees in the Family Compound now had a legitimate reason to leave work early.

On the evening of the first day, the three mothers gathered to buy groceries for a celebratory feast. Song Ma, head nurse of the emergency department, initiated the conversation, "The minced pork eggplant in the cafeteria is really good. I just can't seem to replicate that flavor."

Jing's Mother, the highest-ranking vice president of the hospital, chimed in, "I heard the new head chef nearly made it to a state banquet—just missed it by a hair, or so he claims."

Chen Ma, chief gynecologist, urged them on, "Hurry up and buy what we need so we can cook. Finally, we get some time to rest."

Her words hit the mark. After a flurry of selecting ingredients, they each hurried home.

The next evening, the three mothers coincidentally met at the hospital entrance. Jing's Mother sighed with genuine emotion, "If only the exams lasted ten days or half a month. This break feels more relaxing than annual leave."

The other two mothers nodded in agreement, half-wishing they could anonymously submit this suggestion to the education bureau.

Beyond being "so-and-so's parent," their primary identity was that of healers. The bustling Third Hospital was a microcosm of human suffering, anxiety, and tears—filled with the joy of new life, the helplessness of medical limitations, and the sorrow of farewells. Having witnessed and become intimately familiar with these scenes, they understood that life couldn't simply be measured as long or short. It was complex, ever-changing, and full of unpredictable variables. While exams were important, compared to the vast journey their children's lives had just begun, each mother held in her heart a scale that weighed something far more significant.

For Jing's Mother, the keyword was "dream"—the original passion and aspiration that Jing Qichi stubbornly clung to.

For Chen Ma, it was "health"—that Huan'er would grow up safe and sound, free from illness, with a hearty appetite for life.

As for Song Ma, she simply wished her son could experience the happiness befitting his age. Song Cong was too clever, so much so that everyone's expectations forced him to always do "smart" things. Being first meant no room for mistakes.

These were the most ordinary of mothers, with the most ordinary of wishes.

From the moment she handed in her final English exam until the scores were released, Chen Huan'er's heart was in turmoil. One moment she felt she'd done well, with every answer sheet neatly filled; the next, she worried she'd mixed up dynasties in the history exam's final essay question, though she couldn't recall which emperor she'd written about. It was in this agonizing suspense that she received her results—she'd met Tianzhong High's admission score, but missed the free admission cutoff by two points.

This meant she could enroll as a paying student. The selective admission fee, as she'd learned from Song Cong, was thirty thousand.

Thirty thousand. The value of one multiple-choice question, one word, or perhaps just a single typo.

Their price tag: thirty thousand.

Her parents were exceptionally pleased with this outcome. Their efforts had borne fruit; their hard work had paid off. All those practice tests hadn't been in vain. They said many, many things, all leading to the same conclusion: she must go.

But Chen Huan'er couldn't bear it. Her family was far from wealthy. She knew better than anyone how her mother looked after standing through seven or eight hours of surgery. She was acutely aware of the high-pressure drills her father, shouldering heavy responsibilities, was currently enduring.

She'd missed by just that much.

And now her parents would have to bear the burden of this exorbitant fee for that tiny gap.

No one would ever know how furious, regretful, and miserable Chen Huan'er felt.Song Cong went from being the top student in his grade to ranking first citywide in the newspaper. He said she should still go—after finally meeting the requirements within her capabilities, why wouldn’t she? Jing Qichi’s academic scores far surpassed those of other Special Enrollment Students, and he said, "Of course you should go. How could you bear to leave us behind?" Qi Qi’s score just barely met the public-funded cutoff, and she remarked, "I’ve attended so many tutoring classes since childhood—who knows how many 30,000 yuan they add up to? Consider this as backpay for tuition."

Dreamlike Tianzhong High, a dreamlike new life—everything was within reach.

Chen Huan'er wandered around the experimental high school across from the hospital, the choice that would save her family 30,000 yuan. Standing at the school gate, she tried to convince herself: the school’s ranking wasn’t bad, the campus was beautiful enough, and most importantly, it was close to home—just a ten-minute walk to the Family Compound.

Steeling herself, she made the decision and went home to break the news to her mother.

Unexpectedly, Chen Ma wouldn’t budge an inch on the matter. "No. Your father and I agree—you must go to Tianzhong."

Huan'er’s rebellious streak flared. "I won’t go!"

"You’re going whether you like it or not!" Chen Ma was more forceful than ever. "Even if I have to sedate you, I’ll get you in there."

"Who’s going to school here, me or you?"

"Don’t pull that card. As long as you’re a minor, you’ll listen to me!"

Huan'er clenched her jaw and stayed silent. She rarely argued with her parents—their household was so democratic that they almost never used their authority to force her into anything.

Times had changed.

Chen Ma waved a dismissive hand. "Don’t worry about the money. Education is a long-term investment. With Tianzhong as your platform, your path will be much broader."

Huan'er stayed quiet. She couldn’t yet fully grasp her mother’s wisdom and foresight, but even so, she knew it far surpassed her own.

"Besides, if you’re worrying about the cost," Chen Ma added, now teasing, "that’s practically an insult to me and your dad."

The head of the household had spoken, turning the tables.

Obedience was Huan'er’s only option. Yet, for a long, long time afterward, those two points on the exam haunted her.

Once the big decision was settled, Huan'er packed some clothes and returned to her hometown, Sishui. The house was administratively classified as part of a lower-tier village, but Sishui was so small that the busiest shopping street in the county town was just a fifteen-minute walk away. These three spacious single-story rooms had witnessed her birth and growth, as well as all the joys and sorrows of her youth. When her Chinese teacher analyzed Lu Xun’s "Hometown," the focus was always on the ending, with its themes of hope and paths. But the harsh, grand backdrop of that era failed to move Huan'er—instead, the opening lines nearly brought her to tears.

"But when I try to recall its beauty and put its delights into words, there is no image, no words. It seems all just like this."

That was what Sishui meant to her. She couldn’t pinpoint what was so special about it, but in times of sadness, only this house, this courtyard, could bring her peace.

Her grandparents knew nothing of Tianzhong High. The only information they had was that their granddaughter had worked hard for a year and gotten into the best school in the city. Her parents would never mention the 30,000 yuan admission fee—perhaps at an even younger age than hers, they had learned to share only good news. It seemed like an innate skill, as natural as walking or talking, something that simply fell into place at a certain stage.

She wouldn’t bring it up either. By then, Chen Huan'er already understood: the smaller the place, the greater the weight of 30,000 yuan.Unwilling to go online, read books, or reach out to old classmates—her deskmate and best friend from back then hadn’t gotten into the county’s top high school. Huan’er had tried calling to offer comfort, but the line was dead every time. Later, she heard from her grandma that they’d run into the girl’s mother and learned the class had already thrown a lively graduation party, and her former deskmate was heading to a vocational school in another city. No one had invited Chen Huan’er; she was no longer one of them.

At fifteen, life began to fork into diverging paths—new friends, new environments, while once-close companions and tender days faded into mere shadows in memory.

The tearful farewell to teachers and classmates before transferring schools felt like just yesterday. What saddened Huan’er was the realization that someday, she might even forget their names.

Growing up came at a cost. Unnoticed, time sifted people indiscriminately, like an hourglass—only realizing too late that what had settled below was now an irreparable scatter of sand.

Country life was peaceful and slow. Every day, she followed her grandparents—either tending vegetables and weeding, learning about peculiar herbs, or visiting neighbors, collecting a circle of elderly friends who’d seen all shades of life. Under the blazing sun, banana-leaf fans swayed lazily, and summer stretched endlessly. The only notable event was one night when Huan’er suddenly spiked a fever. The elders, wary of random medication, diagnosed it as a chill from bathing and deemed it harmless. Grandma plucked cilantro roots from the yard, boiled them into a broth, and made Huan’er drink it. She sweated through the night and woke at noon the next day, bouncing back to life. When her father called for his usual check-in, the old couple accidentally let it slip and were promptly scolded: “A fever means a clinic visit! Quit relying on folk remedies—what if it backfires?”

Grandma retorted, “What nonsense! Would I deliberately harm my own granddaughter?”

“Mom, if you keep this up, I’ll have Li Na fetch her tomorrow.”

Hearing the severity, Grandpa quickly yielded, “No need, she’s fine. We’ll be more careful next time. Just don’t tell her mother, alright?”

Chen Huan’er stifled a laugh. Frail since childhood, her grandparents’ folk remedies had always been vetoed by her mother, a trained herbalist, who dismantled their logic and efficacy with unassailable precision. Amateurs against a national-level expert, the old couple knew the taste of utter defeat.

Before her amusement faded, her father decreed, “Make sure she exercises. If it’s too hot outside, punch the sandbag indoors.”

Exercise again—her ears were calloused from the refrain. She believed she’d outgrown childhood frailty, but to her father, Chen Huan’er remained a weakling. She nursed a long-held, unfilial wish: one day, she’d suplex Old Chen.

Grandpa vowed immediately, “We’ll hang the sandbag tomorrow and supervise her.”

Grandma added, “No need for tomorrow—we’ll do it right after this call.”

Huan’er groaned. Whoever claimed old age brought confusion? Their shrewdness could probably outwit scam callers.For the next week, her father didn't call again. The world-renowned Olympics were about to begin. Perhaps on Chang'an Avenue, perhaps outside the Bird's Nest, or maybe in some unknown corner of that bustling metropolis she had barely visited—Chen Huan'er didn't know exactly where, but she was absolutely certain that among the thousands of armed police officers standing guard, there would be one resolute and disciplined face that belonged to her father.