Yuxian County had undergone two name changes in its history—during the Ming Dynasty, it was once called Youxian. According to county records, successive magistrates were renowned for their hospitality, and as those above set the example, those below followed, leading the common people to take pride in being hospitable. Consequently, the food and wine industries flourished, yet the social atmosphere gradually grew frivolous. In truth, if one puts themselves in the shoes of the locals, nestled in a remote mountain valley, hospitality is a perfectly normal expression of human nature! As for the so-called decline in social morals, it might have merely been an excuse used by those who disliked the character "You." During the mid-Qing Dynasty, a certain magistrate petitioned the imperial court, vigorously arguing for the benefits of renaming "Youxian" to "Yuxian." The emperor found his reasoning sound and approved the change. After the name was changed to Yuxian, the tea and wine industries did not decline as a result, but a clear benefit emerged: from officials to the common people, not only did they care about the economy, but they also began to prioritize education and culture. The number of educated and well-mannered individuals increased, and thereafter, many provincial scholars emerged, with the proportion of county scholars in the population rising year after year. The great regret of Yuxian's ancestors was that they never produced a metropolitan scholar. However, they did have one point of pride: until the collapse of the Qing Dynasty, the county produced a total of three "Xiaolian." "Xiaolian" was equivalent to a national model of morality, and for a small, remote mountain county, this was indeed a rare honor. After all, county scholars, provincial scholars, and even metropolitan scholars were ultimately determined by a single examination that decided one's fate. In contrast, the selection of Xiaolian required public participation, with each level of scrutiny stricter than the last. The final hurdle was that the emperor personally reviewed the candidate's deeds and materials. If an imperial-designated "Xiaolian" failed to live up to the title, it would bring shame to both the ruler and his subjects.
In a certain year after liberation, a nationwide standardization of provincial, municipal, and county names took place, and "Yuxian" was renamed "Yuxian" once again during that period. This was because, although the character "Yu" had positive connotations, such as "cultured and refined" or "lush and verdant," it also carried negative meanings, such as melancholy or depression—whereas changing it to Yuxian encompassed all the positive aspects of the economy, education, culture, official conduct, and public morals. After the name was changed to Yuxian, its residents took great pride in the fact that the county had produced several founding generals and officials at the vice-ministerial level or above.
In 1982, Yuxian had a population of sixty to seventy thousand, referring specifically to the population within the county town and excluding rural populations in surrounding mountainous areas like Shenxianding. The county was surrounded by hills on three sides and bordered a river on the fourth. The river was called Jingjiang, and it flowed gently with calm waves year-round. It was by no means a river in name only—it was quite wide and deep. The central channel of the river could accommodate two-story steamships, and a half-day journey by steamship would take one downstream to a prefecture-level city called Linjiang. From Linjiang, a train ride of over ten hours would bring one to Guiyang.
Yuxian possessed picturesque landscapes of mountains and waters.
The woman who delivered me was named Fang Jingyu, and she was thirty-seven years old that year. Her husband was named Meng Zisi, two years younger than her, and they had no children at the time.
The Fang clan to which Fang Jingyu belonged was not only historically significant in Yuxian but also a prominent family. Throughout history, this clan had produced many provincial scholars, one metropolitan scholar, and countless county scholars. It also produced a magistrate of Yuxian, who, according to county records, had commendable administrative achievements and left behind a highly favorable reputation among the people. He was a diligent, approachable, and incorruptible official. Additionally, the clan produced two Xiaolian—out of the three Xiaolian produced in the county over a span of more than 150 years, the Fang clan alone accounted for two! All of these achievements secured an important chapter for the Fang clan in the county records and cast a lasting halo over the memories of Yuxian's earlier generations.Since modern times, the Fang family had primarily dedicated themselves to grassroots education. Among Fang Jingyu's grandfather's generation, some had met with Huang Yanpei, Tao Xingzhi, and Yan Yangchu of that era, exchanging insights on "saving the nation through education," while others maintained frequent correspondence.
Their greatest contribution to Yu County was establishing a nursing school funded mainly by the family, known as Yu County Nursing School. Even by 1982, Yu County Nursing School remained quite renowned throughout the province. The nurses it trained were not only skilled in nursing but also possessed considerable expertise in midwifery. The founding of this nursing school by Fang Jingyu's ancestors stemmed from their observation of the alarmingly low survival rates of newborns in the surrounding mountainous rural areas—a response to the urgent needs of the people. Her father served as the school's principal for many years, while her mother was a lifelong teacher. The number of people in Yu County and the mountainous regions delivered by her parents could almost be described as "countless," if one were to exaggerate. After graduating from the nursing school at nineteen, Fang Jingyu worked as a teacher there while also conducting regular free medical clinics in the mountains, delivering nearly a hundred babies herself.
By 1982, Fang Jingyu had become the principal of the nursing school.
Meng Zisi was a worker-peasant-soldier student in the history department of Guizhou University during the Cultural Revolution. After graduation, he stayed on as a faculty member. Not long after, he was labeled a "counter-revolutionary" for participating in activities opposing the Gang of Four. During a labor reform session, he suddenly fell ill and collapsed. Fortunately, Fang Jingyu was passing through the area on a free medical clinic mission and saved his life in time. Later, the two secretly fell in love. As soon as the Cultural Revolution ended, they married as they had wished. In 1982, coinciding with the central government's promotion of the "knowledgeable and young" cadre policy, Meng Zisi became the youngest deputy mayor of Linjiang City. He returned to Yu County at least once a week to reunite with his wife. When work grew busy, it was common for him to see his wife only once every ten days or half a month. As a deputy prefecture-level cadre, while Yu County was a county-level jurisdiction, requesting a transfer there would pose difficulties for the organization, and Linjiang City would not release him. Knowing this would cause complications, he repeatedly abandoned the idea of transferring to Yu County. When discussing it with his wife, she firmly opposed it as well. After all, Linjiang City offered a larger platform, which was beneficial for his personal prospects. In the early 1980s, a group of intellectuals without any political background had the fortune to enter politics, seen as an important achievement of the reform and opening-up policy. Thus, it was not merely a matter of personal preference. For Fang Jingyu, transferring to Linjiang was much easier. As long as she was willing, both the organizational departments of Yu County and Linjiang City would gladly facilitate it—a simple transfer order. However, she was unwilling to move to Linjiang. Her attachment to the nursing school ran too deep. Her grandfather was the founder of the Yu County branch of the China Democratic League; her father had been the chairperson of the Yu County Democratic League before the Cultural Revolution, effectively its "leading figure." By 1982, Fang Jingyu had also become the chairperson of the Yu County Democratic League, naturally assuming the role of a deputy director of the county's People's Congress—the only female deputy director. She cared little about holding official positions, but the Yu County Democratic League had suffered severe damage during the Cultural Revolution and was only just "reviving" in 1982. The Yu County Democratic League was, in essence, a precious legacy left by the Fang family to Yu County. As the sole "female leader" of the family's main lineage, she could not help but feel a sense of responsibility to revitalize it and allow it to play an active role in the era of reform and opening-up.Fortunately, both Fang Jingyu and Meng Zisi were career-oriented individuals, and they adapted quite well to a long-distance relationship. From adaptation came habit, and from habit came enjoyment—so much so that their love flourished beautifully and joyfully, filled with happiness. Back in 1982, many couples in China lived apart due to work or other reasons, and for Chinese people, that didn’t seem like a great misfortune.
Fang Jingyu held a non-judgmental attitude toward my parents abandoning me at her home—one might even say she was pleased and willing to accept it.
After all, not only had she remembered my parents’ faces, but others had too. With her connections and network, finding my parents would have been as easy as turning over her hand.
Yet she seemed to have no intention of doing so.
She told the neighborly old lady, "Let’s wait three months before deciding. If the couple regrets it, they’ll come back for the child. If they don’t, it proves they’re determined to abandon this child. In that case, what’s the point of finding them?"
Within three months, my parents did not reappear.
She said, "Let’s wait another three months."
Another three months passed, and my parents still hadn’t shown up.
Meanwhile, I had grown from a "newborn lump of flesh" to six months old. Whether as a "lump of flesh" or a six-month-old, I had no say in my own fate—I could only be abandoned or kept. But I had already begun to babble and loved to smile. I was cared for exceptionally well—a nursing school principal who was practically a childcare expert and a diligent, experienced old lady who had raised several children for other families before me worked together in perfect harmony. How could they not take good care of me? My nutrition was also diverse and comprehensive, leaving nothing to be desired. It’s safe to say that in those days, in the entire Yu County, very few children received the kind of meticulous care I did. This was clearly the main reason I smiled so much. The first faces I became familiar with in this world were not my parents’, but Fang Jingyu’s and that old lady’s. Although these two women were of different ages, they shared one thing in common—their faces seemed to radiate a light that made me feel loved. I’m not lying to you; by six months old, I could already sense from people’s faces whether I was loved or not. The arms of these two women were the warmest, most comfortable, and safest places I knew. Whenever I looked at their faces, I would smile—an involuntary, instinctive, pleasing smile. Yes, even at such a young age, I think I had already begun to "learn," without being taught, how to please those who loved me. Whether there was also gratitude mixed in, I can’t say. Probably not? Who knows. Whichever of them picked me up, I would fall asleep quickly.
Later, I called that old lady Grandma Yu because her surname was Yu.
She once told me, "You were such an adorable smiler when you were little. Your mom couldn’t resist picking you up whenever she saw you smiling. You hardly ever cried as a baby—only two or three times, and just for a few moments each time."
Back then, I didn’t yet know about being abandoned by my parents, but I had already heard some stories about angels. I thought to myself, how lucky I was to be loved by two angel-like women from such a young age—there was simply no reason to cry.Half a year later, in March 1983, I became a resident of Yuxian County. My name was added to my mother Fang Jingyu's household registration, with "Meng Zisi" printed on the page before mine. The registration indicated that I was their daughter, and thus, they became my parents. My mother insisted I take her surname, while my father named me Fang Wanzhi. My birthdate was September 14, 1982, and my mother did not want to alter my actual date of birth.
Twenty-six years later, I found myself deeply perplexed about my origins—because I could not determine whether my biological mother or my adoptive mother had truly given me life. At the time, if my adoptive mother had not arrived promptly and, with her extensive midwifery experience, delivered me in her own home, on her own bed, I might have died at birth, or perhaps even cost my biological mother her life. Later, I learned that my fetal position in my biological mother's womb was abnormal, medically termed a "transverse lie." Delivering a "transverse lie" is a challenge for almost every obstetrician, and the safest method is a cesarean section. However, performing a cesarean at that time was impossible—my "Principal Mother" took an enormous risk to deliver me. She believed that risking it to save two lives was worthwhile. In this sense, could it also be said that my adoptive mother gave me a life?
"Principal Mother" is my affectionate nickname for her.
It wasn't until I was three years old that I began to grow closer to my adoptive father—no, since the household registration listed me as a "daughter" rather than an "adopted daughter," I should refer to him as my father. Father usually returned home in the evenings, and the next day, people would constantly visit him to discuss various adult matters, so his attention was rarely focused on me. Although I affectionately called him "Daddy," I felt he mainly came home to see my mother, and his love for me seemed more because my mother loved me. From a child's emotional perspective, I felt closer to Grandma Yu than to my father.
Not knowing my true origins made my childhood exceptionally happy. My experiences later taught me this truth about life—the amount a person knows is often inversely proportional to their happiness. The more one knows, the less happy they may be. Knowing less, or even being entirely unaware of certain things, can sometimes lead to greater happiness. Think about it: some people know the truth about something but cannot or dare not speak of it, forcing themselves to carry it to the grave. How unwilling must they feel when death approaches? What happiness can there be in dying with such reluctance?
Regarding my becoming the daughter of Principal Fang Jingyu and Deputy Mayor Meng Zisi, everyone in Yuxian County was pleased to see it happen. When Principal Mother registered my household status, she submitted a "statement of circumstances"—in it, she assured that no matter when my biological parents came to claim me, she would welcome them and facilitate my reunion with them.Apart from the police station personnel who knew the truth about my origins, only a very, very few people were aware, and Grandma Yu was one of them. They were all tight-lipped individuals. Keeping such a secret was not something they resented—it was one of those rare instances where knowing more did not diminish their own happiness. In the public eye, such people and such phenomena have always been positively regarded, described as "accumulating virtue through words." They respected my Principal Mother and Deputy Mayor Father, proving their genuine reverence by keeping their lips sealed, sharing in the "heaven-sent" joy of my parents. Indeed, because of me, that family grew from two members to four (my parents also regarded Grandma Yu as part of the family, and she felt the same way). I brought laughter and joy to that home, which had been rare when there were only two members, and conversations between hosts and guests often revolved around me.
Once I turned three, I started attending kindergarten. At that time, the entire county had only one kindergarten, established for the families of officials and prominent figures, and it was publicly run, under the administration of the county government's office management department. In the county, retired section chiefs were naturally also respectfully referred to as retired veteran cadres. On important holidays, it was customary for current leaders of various units to pay their respects. As for prominent figures, of course, there were some—many of those managed or united by the Cultural Bureau and Education Bureau were notable figures in Yu County. Before the Cultural Revolution, the county had its own theater troupe, and during the Cultural Revolution, several "reactionary artistic authorities" were "overthrown." As for my Principal Mother, she was even more distinguished among these prominent figures.
Adults in the county, from officials and prominent figures to ordinary citizens, all referred to my mother as Principal Fang. Growing up surrounded by this, I can’t recall exactly when I started, but when mentioning my mother to others, I also liked to say "my Principal Mother."
Saying this was a hint to others, making them immediately understand who I was. And once they realized who I was, they would look at me with newfound respect, and their attitudes would change—adults would praise me a few words, while children would gaze at me with envy.
I thoroughly enjoyed that. My vanity was greatly satisfied at the time.
Everyone has vanity; this no longer needs proving.
I think so-called vanity is nothing more than a psychological feeling. When a person hasn’t done anything worthy of others’ admiration, or when something, upon closer examination, isn’t praiseworthy or respectable, yet they still receive admiration; when they clearly have no right to gain it but still revel in it—that is vanity.
But at what age does a person start to have vanity?
Naturally, it varies from person to person.
And I had it after starting kindergarten.
Since the kindergarten I attended was such a place, its conditions in all aspects were certainly satisfactory to the parents—they were no ordinary parents. A retired elementary school principal was rehired to become the kindergarten’s director. The teachers were all high school graduates, and their appearance was also a consideration during recruitment.
In kindergarten, I was a child who received special care. The director and teachers cared for me with the same attentiveness they showed toward the children of the county party secretary and the county mayor.
Picking up and dropping off children were tasks handled by each family’s nannies.Back in those days in Yu County, there was no phenomenon of children being picked up by cars—aside from the county committee and county government each having two or three old "Shanghai" sedans and canvas-topped military jeeps, there wasn’t a single private car in the entire county. Jeeps were essential because when cadres went to the countryside, they traveled on mountain roads, and jeeps had higher ground clearance and more power than sedans.
Nannies from each household would pick up children, either carrying them on their backs or in their arms, using bicycles to transport them, or pushing them home in strollers. After all, the county town itself wasn’t very large, and nowhere was too far away.
Every day when picking up children, the line of strollers outside the kindergarten would become an eye-catching sight. The stroller Grandma Yu used to pick me up was bought by my father through a connection in Shanghai. It was beautifully colored and stylishly designed—at least by the standards of China back then—and particularly attractive.
Sitting in such a stroller, pushed leisurely by Grandma Yu as she ran errands for the family, it was impossible not to attract attention wherever we went. And Grandma Yu took great pleasure in how much attention we drew.
The home I grew up in could truly be described as a "homestead." It was located in a quiet alley and was the ancestral property of the Fang family. During the Cultural Revolution, it was confiscated but was later returned and registered under my mother’s name.
My home covered more than half an acre of land, with tall, narrow double courtyard gates. The wood remained sturdy and undamaged, and although the copper decorations on the door corners no longer looked like copper, the two copper rings were still bright from frequent use. The hinges had been replaced several times, so opening and closing the door never made a harsh sound. Inside the gate, there was no screen wall; instead, it opened directly to the main house. The main house served as the living room, nearly thirty square meters in size, with rattan and wooden chairs that could seat seven or eight people for conversation. Connected to it was a thirteen- or fourteen-square-meter inner room, which was my parents’ shared study. The right wing was my parents’ bedroom with an attached bathroom, which I rarely entered. The left wing consisted of three small rooms—one where I lived with Grandma Yu when I was young; another where I lived alone after starting middle school; and the third, the kitchen. On either side of the courtyard gate were the toilet and a small storage room for odds and ends. All the rooms in my home, including the storage room and toilet, were built with brick and wood. Below the windowsills were blue bricks, and above them were high-quality, thick hardwood planks. The roof, however, was traditionally tiled with fish-scale tiles. This traditional choice wasn’t just about aesthetics; it also had economic considerations—if a tile or a few needed replacing, the small size of the fish-scale tiles meant lower costs. The courtyard was quite large, at least for me as a child. It had osmanthus trees, crabapple trees, and bougainvillea. In front of the windows of the main house and the wings, canna lilies grew, some blooming red and others yellow. Because of the courtyard, I say my home could be called a "homestead." In fact, many households in the county town had courtyards, estimated at about one-third of them, differing only in size, beauty, or dilapidation. All households had old square brick floors, and mine was no exception. Yu County was a place with high humidity, and wooden floors would rot too easily. Most people’s houses were also brick-and-wood structures, though some, to save money during construction, used stones instead of bricks for the lower sections.In the county town back then, residential houses with sewage systems were all concentrated in two lanes, and the lane where my family lived was called Front Lane. Ordinary folks referred to those two lanes as "Civilization Lanes" and families like ours as "civilized households." This naming convention was said to have been passed down since the Republican era, mainly because many children from these two lanes had studied outside the province or even abroad, becoming "new-style intellectuals." However, ordinary people only felt admiration for the families in the "Civilization Lanes," with no jealousy or resentment—after all, such differences were shaped by history and left by previous generations. After liberation, those who still lived in the "Civilization Lanes," young and old alike, were all cautious in their words and deeds, living low-key lives. If anyone stood out, it might have been my Principal Mother. When she took a firm stance on something, even the county leaders were somewhat intimidated by her. But that "something" was always for the public good or the people's welfare—she never lost her temper over personal matters.
When I was a child, I often heard adults who visited our home for the first time praise the quality of our house and the garden-like yard. I didn’t have any particular feelings about this because I had never been to anyone else’s home—I thought all households in the world were just like ours. Besides, for a preschool child, happiness wasn’t really about the home, whether there was a yard, or what kind of yard it was; what mattered most was that Father, Mother, and Grandma Yu loved me deeply. Whether they were respected people also mattered greatly, though I’m not sure why I was so sensitive to this from a young age. As for the home, for most children who had never visited others’ houses, any decent home was surely a warm one.
Naturally, I attended the best elementary school in the entire county.
One thing I remember particularly clearly is that after becoming a student, I loved telling my classmates about “my Principal Mother”—what she did, how she was, and so on.
My mother eventually found out.
One day, she said to me, “There’s nothing wrong with you liking to say that, but it’s best not to say it in front of others. At home, when you say it to your father or Grandma Yu, it makes me happy too, so only say it at home from now on. Daughter, you must remember this seriously: you are absolutely not allowed to say ‘my Vice Mayor Father’ in front of anyone else—absolutely not! Understood?”
I was frightened by Mother’s seriousness. I stared wide-eyed at her face, forgetting to respond to her words.
Mother asked again, “Now that you’re older, you don’t want to listen to Mother anymore?” Her expression remained just as stern.
Only then did I shake my head, tears welling up in my eyes.
“Then you should say ‘I understand.’ You must answer when adults ask you questions.”
Clearly, Mother had no intention of ending her lecture until she heard my response.
“I understand,” I said, unable to hold back my tears any longer. They fell like broken strings of pearls.
“Don’t be so upset. A child who cries as soon as an adult says a few words isn’t a good child. And a child who always wants others to know who their parents are is even less of a good child. That’s the most pointless talk. Such children annoy others, understand?”
“I understand.”
She kissed me, turned, and left, waving to Grandma Yu outside the door to stop her from coming in to comfort me.
I truly felt wronged.
As a second-grader, I couldn’t understand why it was wrong for a child to be proud of their mother and want others to know who she was. Perhaps because the reasoning behind it was quite complicated, Mother chose to simplify it.
From that day on, I never again said the words “Principal Mother” to anyone, not even to Father or Grandma Yu. Although Mother allowed me to say it at home, for me, it only had meaning when said to others. What was the point of saying it to Father or Grandma Yu? Wasn’t pointless talk just meaningless? So I stopped saying it to anyone.
When I became a seventh-grade girl, without anyone lecturing me further, I quickly came to truly understand that middle school students who always wanted others to know their parents were superior were indeed annoying to others.Growing up taught me this. Life taught me this. So, I felt grateful in my heart for my mother's admonitions when I was in second grade.
It is truly a blessing for a child when parents can inoculate them against certain things that others might find annoying while they are still young!
However, my elementary school teachers still almost all treated me differently—the youngest among them was delivered by my mother.
And my classmates, no matter where they saw my mother, almost always greeted her with "Hello, Principal Auntie." Almost every classmate had at least one relative who was delivered by my grandfather, grandmother, or their students. This made it impossible for them not to show me kindness.
My mother was undoubtedly the most famous among the celebrities in Yu County, far more well-known than my father. Having a famous mother naturally meant that a child would be bathed in her halo. And where there is light, there is shadow—so it could also be said that I grew up in the shadow of that celebrity halo.
In third grade, I became the Chinese class representative. This had little to do with my mother's halo; it was because my Chinese grades had always been excellent, and my essays were often read aloud by the teacher as model examples. Of course, in the end, it was still because I came from such a family—a home filled with books. Not only were there many adult books, but there were also many children's picture books—over a hundred of them, almost enough to open a children's bookstore. One of my father's hobbies was collecting children's picture books, and he was also a reading enthusiast in the 1980s. If a child's father graduated with a degree in history from university and loved reading literary and philosophical works the most, then every casual conversation with him would never be just ordinary chatter. The so-called subtle cultural and moral influence would always come into play during these moments.
After I became an elementary school student, I began to feel a bit attached to my father. Every time he came home, I would pester him to tell me stories about this and that. Whatever he talked about, I found it captivating, interesting, and enjoyable to listen to. He could recite many ancient poems and, to help me appreciate the beauty of the verses, would even draw pictures for me. For example, lines like "Half the clouds hide the pagoda atop the peak, two boats break the bridge in the rain"—at the time, I couldn't understand how boats could "break" a bridge, but I still found it beautiful and loved how it rolled off the tongue. In ancient times, Chinese ancestors summarized the sun, moon, and the five planets (metal, wood, water, fire, and earth) as the "Seven Governors," referred to heaven, earth, and humanity as the "Three Talents," described whirlwinds as "sheep horns," likened lightning to "thunder whips," called the god who "created thunder" Lü Ling, and named the goddess who transported thunder to the sky in a divine chariot A Xiang... All these interesting facts were things my father shared with me during our casual chats.
I loved it most when my father taught me to recite "Lü Ling"—"Clouds to rain, snow to wind, evening glow to clear sky," "Arriving swans to departing swallows, roosting birds to chirping insects," "Three-foot sword, six-jun bow, north of the ridge to east of the river," "Two temples weathered by wind and frost, a traveler setting out early on the road; a straw cloak in misty rain, an old man fishing by the stream in the evening." The last two lines were my father's favorites, and every time he recited them, he would sigh in admiration: "So beautiful, so beautiful!"
Sometimes I wished my mother would join us in reciting, but she would always smile and say, "Don’t think your father is all that learned. He’s just showing off what he’s picked up, and what he’s flaunting to you is nothing more than childish cleverness."Later I learned that our family kept several thread-bound children's books. Whenever my father discovered them, he would always "prepare his lesson" before chatting with me.
I insisted on reading them myself.
But my mother said, "Your father has already told you all the essential parts. Nowadays, children don't need to read such books. If you really want to, wait until after middle school."
My mother also enjoyed reading leisurely books. What she read most were Chinese and foreign short stories. She treasured her time like gold, dedicating most of her energy to studying medical books.
Later, when I started visiting my classmates' homes, I realized that not all children in the world had as good a home as mine. Some classmates' homes were small and shabby—this left me momentarily at a loss, because I also wanted to invite classmates to my home.
I asked my mother what I should do.
If I never invited classmates to my home, my relationships with them would gradually drift apart.
My mother was also stumped by my dilemma.
After pondering for a long time, she finally said, "It's indeed not good to never invite classmates over. How about this: choose a Sunday, let me know in advance how many classmates you can invite, and I'll give them a health checkup first. After that, you can lay out all the picture books for them to read freely. That way, they won't pay too much attention to what our home is like. Also, you should say this upfront—some rooms belong to the nursing school, and our family can't live in them casually."
Wasn't this lying? I hesitated for a moment but didn't voice the question.
On a certain Sunday when my classmates came, my father was also at home. Like my mother, he put on a white coat and acted as her assistant.
My mother checked the classmates' eyes, teeth, ears, nose, and throat, listened to their hearts one by one with a stethoscope, and even gave medicine to a few of them.
Then, my mother gave the classmates a lesson on personal hygiene.
After that, she and my father left the house, instructing Grandma Yu to help me entertain the classmates.
A few days earlier, a stray cat adopted by Grandma Yu had given birth to a litter of kittens, and all the classmates were captivated by them.
Suddenly, one boy couldn't help but say, "Your home is so nice! I wish I had a home like this too."
At that moment, several classmates turned to look at me at once, as if what I said next would determine whether I was one of "their own." Later, I saw similar scenes in movies many times. Every time I saw them, I would recall that classmate's words from that day, and my heart would ache faintly, even though by the time of this "later," I was already an adult—back then, we were only in third grade, and I had good relationships with all of them. I felt that what happened was truly unfortunate. This misfortune belonged not only to my classmates but also to myself, because it was the first time I had told a lie.
My lie was even more of a lie than the one my mother taught me—it could almost be called a "colossal lie," or in idiom terms, a "monstrous lie."
What I said at the time was: "This is a place temporarily lent to our family by the nursing school. Our family of four doesn't have our own house yet!"
"Yes, yes, we don't have our own house yet. No matter how nice this place is, it's not our home. It's really worrying!"
Grandma Yu also chimed in to support my words.
Another female classmate said, "No more comparing whose home is better. Hurry up and let Wan Zhi bring out the picture books for us to read!"I quickly brought out the cardboard box filled with picture books, and everyone’s attention shifted. They ate the fruits and pastries Grandma Yu had served, watching with rapt focus. The room fell into a peaceful silence.
By the time my parents returned, my classmates had already left.
I explained the whole situation to my parents. Dad looked at Mom disapprovingly and criticized, "Teaching our daughter to lie isn’t right, is it?"
Mom’s expression turned solemn, tinged with helplessness. "May I ask, Comrade Mayor, do you have a better solution?"
My father opened his mouth but said nothing more.
As I grew older and experienced more of life, I witnessed the hardships many people faced and felt the heavy weight of personal responsibilities—no, sometimes it felt more like oppression. From reality, I began to discern a certain aggressive truth: sometimes, we know full well that something we or others are doing is wrong, yet we still do it. Truly, it’s because, aside from acting against our conscience, there is no second correct choice available. Especially when we harbor no intention of harming others for personal gain and only wish to avoid causing harm, yet find ourselves forced to choose the wrong course of action, my attitude toward reality grew more tolerant. Toward those who rigidly adhere to "absolute correctness," I often kept a respectful distance.
I even came to believe that as long as humanity exists, those large and small moments of helplessness are simply part of the fabric of life.
During the first summer vacation of my fifth-grade year, Mom was once again heading to the mountainous areas for a free medical outreach. I had never been to the mountains before and was filled with curiosity, repeatedly begging Mom to take me along. At first, she firmly refused, but later, for reasons unknown to me, she agreed.
By then, it was already 1993. The road to the mountains was paved with cement, so Mom no longer had to ride her bicycle into the hills. Instead, a county jeep took us, mother and daughter, into the mountains.
I was excited the whole way, reciting poems and singing songs.
Mom and I arrived at Shenxianding.
Thanks to Mom’s efforts, Shenxianding now had a one-and-a-half-room clinic stocked with common medicines. Farmers with minor ailments or small injuries no longer had to travel to the township—they could buy medicine and get basic treatment right in their village. Those in charge of the clinic had all received training in the county, mostly young women, similar to the "barefoot doctors" of earlier times. Mom regularly supervised and guided their work.
Mom and I stayed in a small room inside the Shenxianding clinic—it had a bed, bedding, and a mosquito net. Every night, we squeezed together on the same bed.
Mom brought along a batch of children’s books, school bags, stationery, towels, soap, shoes, socks, dried noodles, powdered milk, and more. In short, she brought quite a lot, all donated by her and her comrades from the China Democratic League.
But Mom didn’t allow me to help distribute those items.
She said, "You didn’t donate anything, so you have no right to distribute them. When you grow up and are willing to donate, then you’ll have the right."
During the day, Mom was busy going door-to-door to conduct health checks and treat illnesses. She was skilled in acupuncture and massage, and even people in Linjiang City knew her reputation in these areas. The middle-aged and elderly residents of Shenxianding lined up, waiting their turn to receive her treatments.I, on the other hand, immediately tried to blend in with the children of Shenxianding. To be precise—I attempted to immediately become one of them and make new friends, but they all kept a certain distance from me, unwilling to become close with me. It wasn’t rejection; rejection carries hostility, and there was no hostility in their faces or eyes. Nor was it wariness, because I posed no threat to them, and I was actively expressing friendliness toward them—they simply saw me as an “outsider.” They had never seen a child from the county town before, and I was too different from them in every way. These were children who played all year round, both inside and outside the village, and even the girls had fairly dark skin from the sun, while I was fair and delicate. They almost all wore patched clothes. Some children’s clothes were torn in the front or back, without even patches. Although I was wearing my most dirt-resistant clothes, compared to theirs, mine were still too stylish and too clean. Some of them were already past school age but weren’t attending school, while I wore a “two-bar” badge on my sleeve. I have to admit I did it on purpose—to prove to them that I was an outstanding elementary school student, thinking it would win their favor more quickly. Unexpectedly, it had the opposite effect.
One day after the rain, I was wearing pink rain boots and splashing in the puddles when I noticed several children standing around watching me. Among them was a girl about my age, carrying her little brother on her back. They all had their pant legs rolled up high and were barefoot.
The way they looked at me reminded me of the way my classmates stared blankly at me when they visited my home.
Yes, those mountain children weren’t conspiring to reject me, nor were they wary of me—what was there to be wary of? They were simply too unfamiliar with me. Unfamiliarity mixed with envy made it impossible for them to befriend me. It was like a group of wild kittens facing a pampered house cat. The “scent” that set me apart from them made them feel it was unwise to play with me, or perhaps it would compromise the dignity of the wild kittens.
I chose to flee.
Another day, while watching a few boys playing “knee-fighting,” a young pregnant woman approached.
She told me someone wanted to meet me, to ask me a few things about the county town, and asked me to come with her to see that person.
I hesitated and asked, “A boy or a girl?”
She smiled and said it was a woman.
I said, “Then it’s best to ask my mother.”
She replied, “That person just wants to hear it from a girl.” Then she turned to the boys and said, “None of you are allowed to bully her! She’s under my protection. If anyone bullies her, I’ll settle the score with them!”
The boys all said they wouldn’t dare.
Seeing that she had quite a bit of authority among the boys and had declared me under her protection, I felt reassured and boldly followed her. She gently held my hand along the way, occasionally looking down at me with tender eyes.
She was my second sister, He Xiaoju, who was twenty-six years old that year. She had also married into a family with a different surname and was pregnant with her second child. By 1993, the wave of migrant workers had already reached Shenxianding, and her husband, Zhao Dazhi, had gone to work in another city. Sometimes she lived alone, and other times she stayed with her mother-in-law for a few days, enjoying the privilege of being taken care of.My second sister, fifteen years older than me and pregnant, held the hand of her little sister who was still a fifth-grade elementary school girl, to go see my eldest sister, He Xiaoqin.
I truly was the little sister of my two older sisters!
After what happened with Zhang Jiagui, my eldest sister suffered a period of mental instability. After recovering for two years, she married another man from a different surname, Wu Qi. Wu Qi was three years older than my eldest sister, had only an elementary school education, was a thin and weak man, and lacked the rare temperament among the men of Shenxian Peak that Zhang Jiagui had. Fortunately, he didn't take my eldest sister's past illness seriously and treasured her. He also went out to work, and his family looked down on my eldest sister. Although they said she was mentally stable now, she often still wasn't quite normal. Wu Qi had to entrust my father to look after my eldest sister regularly, to prevent her from getting lost without anyone knowing. Since my eldest sister contracted that illness that made people avoid her, my second sister, though younger, acted more like an older sister. Even though she was already someone else's daughter-in-law, she still constantly cared about my eldest sister's daily life and meals, sometimes even disregarding her in-laws' objections and simply staying with my eldest sister for a few days.
When I saw my eldest sister, she was weeding in front of her dilapidated home. It was indeed a broken home; the roof seemed like it might collapse, the door was crooked, the ground in front was muddy and overgrown with weeds, and there was chicken and duck droppings everywhere.
Second Sister said, "Sister, stop weeding. Wait for a sunny day when the ground dries, I'll do it."
Eldest Sister leaned on the hoe handle, looked at me steadily, and asked, "Is it her?"
Second Sister nodded, gently pushed me toward Eldest Sister, and said affectionately, "Let this sister take a good look at you."
Eldest Sister's clothes and pants had been washed not long ago and were quite clean, but for some reason, they were wrinkled. Her hair was also shapeless, obviously not often combed, and somewhat messy. Only her face remained beautiful, and her figure still maintained its slenderness.
Second Sister's words confused me; I felt that given our age difference, I should call Eldest Sister and Second Sister "Aunt" or something similar. They were clearly both married women, and it felt strange for a little girl like me to call them "sister."
Although I was puzzled, I still stood still, letting my eldest sister look at me to her heart's content.
Eldest Sister's hand slid down the hoe handle, she squatted down to examine me for a while, then stood up and said, "That's right, it's definitely her. Let her go."
Second Sister asked softly, "Is that all?"
Eldest Sister made an "mm" sound and continued weeding.
Second Sister stared at Eldest Sister for a moment, then said in a tone that seemed apologetic to me, "Well, that's it then, you can go. Don't wander off to play elsewhere, go straight back to the clinic."
She lovingly stroked my head. Before her hand even withdrew, I had already turned and run off, like a little deer that had been caught and then released.
Not only was Eldest Sister's home dilapidated, but Shenxian Peak everywhere showed signs of decay. All the young and middle-aged adults had gone to work in other places; my eldest sister and second sister stayed in the village due to their own special reasons. With the young and middle-aged adults, especially the men, gone, women and the elderly couldn't handle home maintenance well. Even when the main breadwinners—the men—returned, they were too lazy to repair their homes. They had a new, different sense of home—they wanted to use the money they earned elsewhere to rebuild more permanent, brick-and-tile small buildings that could be passed down to their descendants. They had long looked down on the old kind of homes. It's just that the money they had saved so far wasn't enough to realize their dream homes.The dilapidation of the entire village was the "relic" before a comprehensive transformation from old to new, the "scene" left uncleared between two acts of a play.
Though I was only in fifth grade, I could still sense the rapid changes unfolding between the county town and Shenxianding. Back then, Yuxian County, though not developing quickly, was changing every year, with new phenomena emerging and a fresh appearance each year. In stark contrast, over more than a decade, Shenxianding had only one kind of change—a decline into decay, as if it were being abandoned.
Early the next morning, as I stepped out of the clinic, I saw a boy slightly taller than me standing by the door.
He asked, "Want to go catch some loaches?"
Finally, a village child had taken the initiative to invite me to play. Of course, I was thrilled and didn’t hesitate just because he was a boy. I happily followed him right away.
Most families’ fields were now tended by women and the elderly, while a few had rented theirs out. Land had suddenly lost its preciousness, and some families even dared to plant flowers in front of their windows and behind their houses.
The rice paddies, freshly harvested, were soft, with water pooling in some spots. There were loaches and eels, though not many and all small, about as thick as my fingers. It took half a day just to dig through the mud and catch one. Every time the boy caught one, he’d show it to me before putting it into his small basket, as if I were an inspector. Afraid of getting mud on my clothes, I didn’t try catching any myself.
The boy had delicate features and was a third-grade student.
I said, "Then you have to call me 'sister.'"
He smiled sheepishly and quite willingly started calling me "sister."
It wasn’t until over a decade later that I learned he was my eldest sister’s son, my nephew—and that my mentally unstable eldest sister had asked him to seek me out and play with me.
I became an aunt while still a fifth-grade girl, a thought that always makes me chuckle silently; sometimes, though, I smile bitterly—some responsibilities are simply destined.
Back then, I was completely unaware, and my nephew was equally in the dark.
Growing impatient with watching my nephew catch loaches, I wandered off alone to pick flowers. Clusters of small purple flowers bloomed along the edge of the field, quite charming.
Suddenly, I heard my nephew’s startled cry. Looking up, I saw a billy goat chasing someone—I didn’t know how that person had provoked it or whose goat it was. It was unusually large and imposing, like a small calf, with two sharp horns about a foot long. While most goats’ horns curve backward, this one’s curved forward. The person, desperate to escape, leaped into the field. The billy goat halted, glared at me for a moment, then lowered its head and charged toward me even faster, horns aimed straight ahead.
I stood frozen at the edge of the field, terrified. If it had rammed into me, those horns would surely have pierced my chest.
Just then, someone lifted me by the waist. The person who lifted me lost their balance and fell backward into the field, with me landing on top of them.
That person was my biological father, He Yongwang. At the time, he had been working in the field, glancing over at me now and then as he worked.
He knew I was the daughter he had abandoned.
In the harvested rice paddy, the stubble of the rice roots was sharp and hard. His feet were badly injured, and he had minor wounds on his legs, arms, and hands.
As a result, my mother had one more patient with external injuries.
A few days later, my mother said, "Shouldn’t you go thank the uncle who saved your life?"
I replied, "I’ve been thinking the same thing these past few days."
So, my "Principal Mother" took me to meet the biological father who had saved my life.My biological father's home, or rather the house on Immortal Peak, wasn't much better than my eldest sister's place—even the roof leaked. Above my biological father's bed hung a plastic sheet, still holding rainwater that hadn't been emptied. Our He family still had no sons, and my biological father was nearly sixty that year, finding it difficult to get work outside. If he were ever to live in a decent house, he could only rely on his two sons-in-law. As for whether they had the ability, or if they did, whether they were willing to help him, he certainly had no confidence at the time—because when he saw my mother and me, his first words were: "Living in such a troublesome home, I really don't want to trouble you, Principal Fang, to keep coming."
My mother comforted him, saying, "We must look forward." Then she lowered her head and said to me, "Thank Uncle."
I said a few words of thanks and bowed.
My biological father asked, "What's her name?"
My mother told him my name on my behalf.
He didn't understand my name and asked what it meant.
My mother smiled somewhat awkwardly, saying it didn't have any special meaning, just that it sounded pleasant when spoken, and she asked me to explain the meaning of "Wan Zhi" to him myself.
Of course, I understood the meaning of my own name and shyly explained it to him.
"What a wonderful name. Educated people really know how to name their children. We farmers can't come up with such good names; we just casually name them Xiao Qin, Xiao Ju..."
He appeared very self-conscious.
And my "Principal Mother" smiled awkwardly again.
Suddenly, he made a request: "Let me hold her, okay?"
My mother was taken aback for a moment, then her expression turned solemn, and she said in a serious tone, "Yes. Why not? I'd be happy to see you hold my daughter."
At that time, he was sitting on the edge of the bed, legs dangling. Upon hearing my mother's words, he immediately stretched out his arms toward me.
But I was reluctant. Not because I was afraid of him. He was my lifesaver and also my mother's patient. With my mother beside me, I wasn't the least bit afraid of this strange old man. I disliked the unpleasant smell on him—he must not have bathed for days because of his injured foot.
I hesitated and didn't move forward.
My mother placed her hands on my shoulders, gently pushing me toward him, and said softly, "Uncle loves you. Let Uncle hold you." At the time, I found it strange why my mother didn't say "like" but instead said he "loved" me. But before I could dwell on that thought, I was already tightly held in his arms.
It seemed as if once he held me, he had no intention of letting go. I heard his breathing grow heavy and his heart pounding loudly.
I had never been held so tightly by anyone before, and it made me very uncomfortable. Moreover, I felt as if he was about to cry.
I turned my head to look at my mother for help.
My mother said, "Uncle He, it's time to change your bandages."
As soon as his arms loosened slightly, I broke free and ran outside, all the way to a place far from his house...
On the afternoon before my mother and I left Immortal Peak, while my mother was packing, someone outside called, "Principal Fang."
I leaned against the windowsill and saw an old grandfather standing at the door, with a half-foot-long beard that was almost entirely white.My mother stepped out the door and respectfully addressed him as "Old Party Secretary." Besides my second sister, eldest sister, and biological father, he was the fourth adult from Shenxianding that I had "approached." By "approached," I mean I could hear their words and clearly see their expressions. The first three adults had left me with somewhat peculiar impressions, which instead sparked my curiosity about the adults of Shenxianding. As for the other adults, they had only ever glanced at me from afar, and I had seen them from an equally distant range, but we had never approached each other.
Old Party Secretary glanced at me and whispered to my mother, "I see things clearly in my heart."
My mother also whispered, "What instructions do you have?"
He said, "Apart from having some authority over Party members, I can't manage much else. But Principal Fang, we've known each other for nearly thirty years and understand each other well. There are a few words I must say to you face to face."
Mother replied humbly, "Please enlighten me, Old Party Secretary."
"Hey! You... how should I put it? There aren't many outstanding female comrades like you in the entire county, but this matter—you know what I'm referring to—your handling of it lacks consideration!..."
Old Party Secretary grew agitated as he spoke. He wanted to point at "Principal Mother," but as soon as he raised his hand toward her, he immediately lowered it and tucked it behind his back.
"I guessed you would criticize me, but I thought that someday she might still have ties to this place... so..."
It was the first time I had seen my mother speak with such lack of confidence.
"Don't you know what kind of place Shenxianding is? Do you think it will one day become a place where immortals live? You... even if we were releasing animals, we'd have to choose the right place for them, wouldn't we? As the old saying goes, help someone in their time of need, save someone to the very end. I hope you, Principal Fang, will reconsider carefully. That's all I have to say!..."
As soon as he finished speaking, he clasped one hand behind his back, strode away with large steps, and swung his other hand back and forth with his gait.
After Mother came back inside, I asked, "Mom, what did you do wrong to make him criticize you so angrily?"
Mother continued tidying things as she said, "He wasn't angry, just a bit agitated. Mom didn't do anything wrong, and that wasn't criticism. It's normal for adults to have different views on certain matters."
I whispered again, "Is it something related to me?"
Mother stopped tidying, turned her head, and said to me seriously, "It's purely a matter between adults. How could it have anything to do with a child like you? Don't let your imagination run wild. Shenxianding has nothing to do with you for the rest of your life."
When leaving Shenxianding, I knelt on the back seat of the jeep and gazed through the small rear window at Shenxianding and everything around it growing farther and farther away. I secretly thought that aside from its dilapidation, such a place truly had nothing else impressive about it and was completely not worth visiting a second time. As for those four strange adults there, none of them were people I could like. Only the boy who had taken me to catch loaches retained a small bit of fondness in my heart. Not seeing him again before leaving, not saying goodbye to him, left me with some regret.
After returning to the county town, within a few days, I completely forgot about Shenxianding and the people there. After all, a very poor and peculiar place likely only retains its memory in a child's mind for a few days at most.
Only the image of that boy still occasionally appeared in my mind...
OpenNovel