My Destiny

In 2002, I was a sophomore in college.

I encountered love.

One day on my way to class, I was bumped into by a boy on a skateboard—the path to the teaching building was bustling with students hurrying along, some eating as they walked. A young sparrow that couldn’t yet fly had somehow fallen from a tree onto the path, hopping blindly among the students’ footsteps, with few people noticing it. Even those who did simply lifted their feet to step over it. Its mother chirped anxiously in the tree, occasionally circling above the students’ heads, but no one paid any attention to this unusual sight. When I noticed the sparrow, it had just been kicked over by someone’s foot. The kick left it motionless, lying helplessly amid countless hurried footsteps. I quickly took two steps forward, scooped it up with both hands, and intended to place it on the lawn.

Just then, the boy on the skateboard bumped into me. It was an accident neither of us could blame, but he clearly wanted to fault me and was about to say something unpleasant. When he realized what I was doing, he spread his arms to shield me from others.

We didn’t speak, just smiled at each other.

The second time I saw him, he was in the elevator, and I was outside, about a dozen steps away. The elevator was already full, but he held the door open to keep it from closing. I ran over and squeezed in, but the elevator was overloaded. Just as I was about to step out, he left first, and someone else pressed the button, closing the door.

The third time I saw him was at a school magazine editorial meeting. He was an editor, and I was a student contributor. I had written an essay titled "Notes from the Immortal’s Peak," which naturally mentioned my biological father, my two older sisters, and my nephew. In the essay, my relatives were simply "people from Immortal’s Peak"—at the time, I still didn’t know they were my family. He was my editor and, during his critique, said my essay had a "jade-like quality" and could be called a "jade essay." His excessive praise made me feel quite embarrassed at the time.

Just like that, we were no longer strangers. You could say we got to know each other naturally.

Later, when eating in the cafeteria, he often "coincidentally" sat next to me.

He was a computer science major, which was a popular field back then. But he was also a literature enthusiast who never wrote creatively but was considered skilled in critique. He was from Guiyang, and his father was the director of a provincial department. According to him, his father was a high-ranking official in that department, effectively enjoying deputy provincial-level treatment. That year, my father was already the mayor of Linjiang City, and he had somehow learned about this, even mentioning that his father knew of my father.

One day, while we were taking a walk, he said, "In our year, there aren’t many students from cadre families, and those who study well wouldn’t end up at a school like this."

His words were clearly about himself, but they unintentionally hurt my pride. I tried my best to act unaffected and said, "Every university has its talents."

The saying that love makes people foolish is a rumor. At first, it makes people wiser; it’s only as it deepens that it makes them foolish.

He was delighted to hear this and suddenly kissed me. Even though it happened when I was completely unprepared, I wasn’t angry.

I then kissed him back, or so it seemed. Otherwise, that day wouldn’t have ended with a deep, shared kiss between us.In 2002, everything in China entered a "fast-paced" phase, and love was no exception. Compared to the general public, university students' romantic processes were considered quite "leisurely." Among ordinary people, those who "fancied" each other often entered practical "steps" on the very same day. The reasons for not doing "that" were becoming increasingly untenable among young people.

I fancied him.

He was over 1.8 meters tall, not exactly a handsome guy, but still quite good-looking. We were quite well-matched in terms of height and appearance. Love brought unexpected twists to my otherwise mundane university life. Although I wasn’t so swept away by love that I lost my bearings, I did genuinely enjoy the tenderness accompanied by pleasant surprises.

He had taken me on his motorcycle twice around the old and new districts of Guiyang, insisting that I be the one to decide where to buy a house. I began to feel some anticipation for life again—not the wild, unrealistic daydreams of middle school, nor the confusion of high school where thinking too deeply would suddenly make everything seem dull and pointless, but a very practical, down-to-earth kind of envisioning, closer to rational planning and design for life.

Another day, while I was intimately whispering with him at our usual rendezvous spot, a girl from my dormitory found me and said my dad had called the school office—my mom had been hospitalized.

On the bench outside the emergency room of Linjiang Municipal Hospital, I saw my distraught father.

My dad told me that my mom had suddenly suffered a gastric hemorrhage. Stomach issues ran in her family, but it was also related to how exhausted she had been recently. The Democratic League was undergoing a leadership transition, and she had to personally negotiate personnel arrangements with the municipal United Front Work Department. The nursing school was expanding and increasing enrollment, but halfway through construction, the funding chain broke, and the promised funds didn’t arrive. She had to personally seek help everywhere. Grandma Yu’s death had also deeply saddened her. Though she didn’t say it, she grieved in private. Without someone like Grandma Yu at home, she couldn’t manage the household chores, yet she couldn’t find a suitable replacement right away... Mom had underestimated her illness and overworked herself.

A nurse came out of the ward and said Mom was awake, knew I had arrived, and was eager to see me.

I entered the ward, and my pale-faced mother smiled at me, trying her best to appear composed.

As soon as I sat down beside her, she asked, "Have you seen your dad?"

I nodded and took one of her hands in mine.

She added, "Don’t worry, daughter. Although Mom’s illness runs in the family, it definitely won’t be passed on to you."

I didn’t understand why she said such a thing.

"Mom, why would you say that?"

I cried softly, kissed her hand, kissed her face, and said some words to reassure her that she would be fine.

"Remember, I’ve left a letter for you. I dictated it, and your dad wrote it down. Don’t rush to read it now. It’s fine to wait a few days, but don’t forget about it."

At the time, how could I have understood that when she said "a few days," she actually meant "after I die"?

How could I have thought that way?

After giving those instructions, Mom pulled two things from under her pillow—the first was a bankbook; the second was also a bankbook. In 2002, bank cards weren’t very common yet.

Mom told me that one book had over twenty thousand yuan, left to me by Grandma Yu, who had asked someone to write a will for her. It was her lifelong savings, and Mom was the designated executor. The other bankbook had nearly one hundred thousand yuan, which Mom had saved for me herself."I originally wanted to round it up before giving it to you, but now... Mom thinks it's better to give it to you now. You're already a sophomore in college, graduating in two years, and you should have your own little family soon. Keep it with you, it'll be more convenient to use..."

Mom pressed the savings passbook into my hand, clasping my hands with both of hers.

"Mom, what are you doing? I don't want money. I want you to get better soon, to leave the hospital early..."

I burst into tears.

But Mom said, "Don't cry! Look, the nurse is coming in again because you're crying. Quick, give Mom another kiss..."

I kissed her hand, using it to muffle my sobs.

That nurse had also graduated from nursing school. She probably never imagined that one day she would be caring for a patient who was the principal respected by generations of students.

The nurse looked at me with pleading eyes.

I kissed Mom's forehead once more and reluctantly left.

That year, the river bridge had already been completed, the highway was open, and Dad still had a meeting in the city, so he went directly from the hospital to the venue.

I returned alone to our home in Yu County. Standing in the courtyard where no one else was present, I felt for the first time what it meant to be "anxious and uneasy."

Yet I never imagined that Mom would really leave me. Or rather, my mind fiercely rejected such a thought.

I lay down on the bed and fell asleep almost immediately.

I was utterly exhausted.

Late that night, my "Principal Mother" left me... In the three days that followed, my state could truly be described as "wishing for death in my grief." The two women who loved me most in this world had left me one after another, never to return. It made me feel like a lone wild goose with nothing to rely on, lacking trust in the earth and marshes, having lost even the most basic sense of security. I was filled with doubt toward the vast sky. "Principal Mother" and Grandma Yu were not just two generations of family who had nurtured me as I grew up—they were also auspicious spirits who could bless my fate with smooth sailing. As long as they were here, no matter what setbacks I encountered in life, I would never panic; I would only taste disappointment, but my sense of security would remain unaffected. Losing one, I already felt as if a pillar of my family shrine had broken, never to be repaired. Now that both were gone, my family shrine had collapsed. In the eyes of others, I had of course grown up—my father saw me that way. But I knew myself that my psychological age was still stuck in the girlhood phase, accustomed to being doted on. As for my father, he certainly loved me too, but I always felt his love was different from the meticulous, detailed love "Principal Mother" and Grandma Yu had for me. In his words, during those three days, I was like a "living dead" from excessive grief.

He was right. I had suddenly fallen into an unprecedented state of confusion and helplessness. The main thing I participated in was Mom's funeral. It was naturally grand, but I couldn't remember the process at all—I didn't even take in the eulogy. Later, Dad told me that the eulogy spoke "very highly" of my mother.

On the fourth night, while Dad was reviewing documents in his study, I walked in and finally managed to sit calmly across from him.

I found it strange at the time that he could so calmly return to his work.

I asked him for the letter Mom had left for me. Of course, I hadn't forgotten about it.

He played dumb and asked, "What letter?"At my insistence, he had no choice but to admit that there was indeed such a letter, but he claimed to have forgotten where he had put it, promising to give it to me whenever he remembered or found it.

I saw through his excuse and bluntly expressed my disbelief.

He grew angry, slammed the table, and even raised a cup as if to throw it, though he ultimately didn’t smash it to the ground.

"I am your father! You are my daughter! You lost your mother, and I lost my wife—our grief is the same! Why can’t you understand me? Why must you sit across from me at a time like this, pestering me over a letter?!"

He was unusually agitated, his face turning pale, and his waving hand nearly struck my head.

I leaned back, staring at him with unwavering determination.

It was the first time such a situation had arisen between us as father and daughter, and at that moment, my feelings were nothing short of "heart-stopping."

But the more emotional he became, the more counterproductive it was, and the more eager I grew to see the letter.

In the end, he relented, unlocked his desk drawer, took out the letter, and placed it on the corner of the desk.

"Read it here!" he said, then grabbed a pack of cigarettes and went outside.

The general content of my mother’s letter was this—the fact that I was not her biological daughter had always been a source of inner turmoil for her. However, she believed it would be wrong to take this truth with her to the other world. I was the daughter of the family from Shenxianding, and I had already met my Biological Father—the "uncle" who had been injured while saving me. If I wanted to know why I had become Fang Wanzhi, it would be best to ask my Biological Father and Biological Mother. Of course, I could also choose not to ask, avoiding the negative impact of the truth; I could keep my name, continue to regard the home in Yu County as my own, and go on living with my Adoptive Father.

"Wan Zhi, you must believe that your Zisi Father and I both regarded you as our own, one hundred percent! Now that I am gone, his love for you will only grow deeper, not diminish in the slightest. You have the absolute right to decide how to navigate your relationships with your relatives in Shenxianding, with Zisi Father, and with the home in Yu County. Moreover, your Principal Mother believes that whatever you decide has nothing to do with morality. After all, the truth is now history, and one’s real life should not be troubled by the circumstances of one’s origins. Whether it’s Biological Father and Biological Mother or Adoptive Father and Adoptive Mother, it’s all a matter of fate. And fate means that, whether long or short, continuing or ending, it should follow the natural course of one’s heart. Nothing else needs to be dwelled upon..."

In my memory, "Principal Mother" was a person whose rationality far outweighed her emotions. Between the lines of that letter, I could see how calm, composed, and serene she must have been when dictating it to my Adoptive Father—so calm, in fact, that it was almost as if she were dictating a leader’s "instructions" to a subordinate.

And this made the truth about my origins doubly shocking to me—I completely broke down.

Later, my Adoptive Father said he heard a mournful cry from me outside, like the dying call of an animal.

When he entered the room, I had collapsed unconscious on the floor.

That night, I lay unconscious in my adoptive parents’ bed, while my Adoptive Father stayed awake the entire night, sitting by my bedside until dawn.

He had a mountain of work that needed to be done promptly, and I shouldn’t become his "burden."

At my strong insistence, he personally drove for six or seven hours, dropping me off at school sometime after one or two in the afternoon.

What I was most eager to do was see my boyfriend.

I intercepted him outside his dormitory just as he was about to head to class.I no longer cared whether he had class or not, practically dragging him to our usual meeting spot. There were corridors, pavilions, and a pond there. At that time, lotus flowers were blooming in the pond, a delightful sight that lifted the spirits. On the grapevines along the corridors, clusters of grapes had turned from green to purple. On the four pillars of the pavilion, morning glories bloomed in vibrant shades of purple and red, creating a lively scene like a flower pavilion. Inside the pavilion, I sat while he stood, taking the letter from my hand.

My "Principal Mother" believed it would be wrong to take the truth about my origins to the other world; while I directly felt it would be immoral not to promptly share that truth with the boy who loved me.

"Promptly" to me meant without a moment's delay.

Was there any need for "delay"?

I thought not.

Rather than hesitating to tell him myself, it was better to let him read the letter.

The letter was two pages long. After reading it once, he started over from the first page.

I said, "No need to read it twice, right?"

He placed the letter on the stone table, looked at me, and forced a strange smile as he said, "Yes, no need to read it twice. This letter is clear, and I understand everything. There's really nothing I need to ask you. But I have to say, this complicates our relationship, really complicates it. You must agree that the relationship between two people in love also involves the relationship between their families, right? Now, I can't make decisions on my own. I never expected such a situation—it's too unexpected, too complicated. I need to go to class. Let's cool things off for now..."

He said a few more things, but I could no longer hear them.

At that moment, the world became exceptionally quiet.

Under my gaze, he suddenly turned and left the "flower pavilion," walking away without looking back.

I didn't shed any more tears. I wasn't even sad or felt a sense of loss.

Once again, my heart was as calm as still water.

His name was Han Bin, an ordinary name—I believed I could completely forget it within a few days, as if it had never existed in my mind.

I took leave from school and went to Shenxian Peak.

Ten years had passed, and the village had changed—fruit trees now grew in the fields; the village roads were paved with cement; brick houses appeared here and there, made of blue bricks instead of mud bricks, with large ridge-shaped tiles replacing the small fish-scale tiles; some were already built, others under construction. The adults and children I saw were no longer dressed in rags.

How strange!

On my second visit to Shenxian Peak a decade later, I could still accurately recall the direction of my biological father He Yongwang's home.

He Yongwang—no, I should say my biological father—was in his sixties that year. I didn't know exactly how old, but definitely over sixty. He looked older than his actual age, thinner and smaller than before, with a slightly hunched back, sparse hair, and the appearance of a clean-shaven old man.

He was sitting on a bamboo stool, shelling corn. Looking up and seeing me, he asked indifferently, "Who are you looking for?"

I said, "I am Fang Wanzhi."

"Don't know you." He stood up, no longer looking at me, swaying left and right with his hands on his hips.

I added, "Ten years ago, you injured your foot while saving me."

He stopped swaying, looked at me, and stammered, "Ah, I remember now... you... back then... you were... Principal Fang's... daughter?..."

He gestured with one hand to indicate my height from back then.I said, "Now I know she is my adoptive mother, and I should have been surnamed He..."

His outstretched hand could not retract, remaining hunched over, mouth half-open, frozen before me as if immobilized by a spell.

Behind him, the home I had entered once a decade ago was nearly in ruins, with windows and doors barely recognizable, on the verge of collapse. The ground in front of the door, however, had been paved with gravel, likely to prevent excessive mud during rainy days. It seemed his two sons-in-law had not entirely abandoned their father-in-law, though they lacked the means to help him rebuild the dilapidated house.

A hen that had just laid an egg leisurely "strolled" out of the broken home, clucking for a while before pecking at the corn kernels in a winnowing basket.

The hen snapped my biological father out of his daze. Clearly, my appearance left him both embarrassed and flustered, with a hint of anger. He stomped his foot and accused, "Things are already like this, what else do you want? Wasn’t that arrangement good for you? Do you have to come here to blame me? Listen, I won’t admit any guilt in front of you, and I have no guilt to admit!..."

He had his reasons, believing I was making unreasonable demands.

Putting myself in his shoes, his accusations weren’t entirely unfounded. If I were truly here to assign blame, it would indeed border on ingratitude and unreasonable provocation.

But I wasn’t here to assign blame.

In fact, I wasn’t entirely sure why I had come to Shenxian Peak. It felt somewhat involuntary, as if guided by some unseen force.

I said calmly, "I have no other purpose, I just wanted to see..."

I intended to say "to see all of you," but the words "all of you" lingered on the tip of my tongue before I swallowed them back—though I wasn’t here to assign blame, I wasn’t here to seek familial affection either. "To see" best captured my purpose—simply "to see."

"Well... then... come inside..."

His tone softened, leaving only embarrassment.

I glanced at his—or perhaps my—dilapidated home, shook my head, and asked with a calmness that even puzzled myself, "Where is she?"

He retorted, "Who?"

"The one who gave birth to me."

As soon as the words left my mouth, even I felt they sounded too cold.

"She’s dead. Didn’t you not see her when you came as a child? She had already been dead for over a year back then..."

His words also became unusually calm, calm to the point of indifference, without any hint of accusation, merely answering the question truthfully.

I felt as if my heart had been lightly pricked by a needle—not with pain, but with an instinctive visceral reaction.

"Then... I’d like to see Eldest Sister and Second Sister..."

I have two sisters, as Principal Mother told me in her letter. That letter reminded me of the two "peculiar" women I had seen during my visit to Shenxian Peak ten years ago. I was certain they were my Eldest Sister and Second Sister.

Yes, I wanted to know how they were doing now. More precisely, I wanted to know how they were living.

Blood ties are truly powerful. The saying "even if the bones are broken, the tendons remain connected" is all too fitting.

If there was any vague, underlying purpose to my second visit to Shenxian Peak, it was to see how my two sisters were living.

He hesitated for a moment, perhaps feeling my "request" was not at all unreasonable, and said softly, "Alright."Thus, my biological father He Yongwang walked ahead at a steady pace, while I followed a few steps behind, on my way to see my eldest sister He Xiaoqin and second sister He Xiaoju. Maintaining that distance on the road, if anyone saw us, they would never have guessed we were father and daughter, nor even that he was leading the way for me.

Only two completely unrelated people would walk one after the other like that, each on their own.

He never looked back.

And I never thought to catch up to him.

My eldest sister's family was building a house. Four men and one woman were all busy. The woman was carrying bricks, her clothes stained red with brick dust. Among the four men, some were mixing cement, some were laying bricks, and some were installing window frames.

I immediately recognized that the woman was my eldest sister. She had also become much thinner than ten years ago, her face haggard, her expression dull, with not a trace of her former beauty left. It seemed her illness had indeed made her slow-witted, so much so that she couldn't even handle the simple task of carrying bricks properly. Others carried bricks with their arms hanging down, hands supporting the bottom brick, but she held a stack of bricks like a tray, causing the top brick to nearly touch her chin and forcing her head to tilt back—she just stood there staring at me, frozen.

"Good heavens, I've never seen anyone carry bricks like that! What are you standing there for? Put the bricks down first!"

He Yongwang—our father—scolded her with pity for her misfortune.

Her hands loosened, and the bricks fell to the ground, but her gaze remained fixed on me.

The four men stopped their work, their eyes turning first to her, then to me and my biological father. A half-grown youth hurried over to her and asked anxiously, "Mom, did it hit your feet?"

She didn't speak, didn't move, still staring at me.

The youth crouched down to check her feet.

His call of "Mom" told me he was my eldest nephew. His face still carried the youthful innocence of a boy, but a mustache had already grown above his lips. Yet his features were still quite delicate, resembling my eldest sister.

He stood up and said to one of the three men, "It didn't hit Mom's feet."

Then I understood—that man was my eldest sister's husband.

My biological father stammered to my brother-in-law, "Well, it's nothing urgent. You see, she's Xiao Qin's... you'd never guess... came to see Yang Hui's mother..."

That was how I learned my eldest nephew's name was Yang Hui.

"I don't understand what you're saying."

My brother-in-law resumed laying bricks.

The other two men also went back to work.

My biological father looked at me helplessly.

I had no choice but to say, "He Xiaoqin is my eldest sister."

The eyes of all three men focused on me alone.

My biological father said, "Yes, that's how it is, as she said."

I stared at my eldest sister. She gave me a strange smile.

Her smile stirred a storm inside me, as if a hand had pushed me hard from behind. I took a step toward my eldest sister, wanting to walk over and hug her.

My biological father grabbed me in time.

He said, "Don't go over there. Her illness isn't completely cured yet."

My eldest nephew hadn't moved away from my sister's side. He wrapped an arm around his mother, as if protecting her or preventing any abnormal behavior from her.

He pleaded with me, tears gathering in his eyes, "What are you thinking? Just leave!"

My thin, small brother-in-law scolded my biological father: "He Yongwang, don't blame me for being disrespectful to you, my father-in-law! I also want to ask you, do you have nothing better to do? You may be idle, but we're busy! I have to pay two people's wages every day! Hurry up and take her away. What kind of scene are you making here?..."

My eldest sister suddenly spoke. She said, "Dad, take her away."

One of the men also said, "This is really not the time."

My eldest sister stopped looking at me and bent down to pick up the fallen bricks.

I don't remember how I left.

It seemed I turned and ran first, or perhaps my biological father dragged me away; it seemed I said a few more words, or perhaps I said nothing more.Zhao Kai and I walked one after the other toward my second sister’s house.

My second sister’s brick house was already built, looking like it had just been completed. The door and window frames were painted a reddish-brown, and a brick wall about one person’s height had been erected around the yard, though there was no gate yet. From outside the yard, you could see what was happening inside. They had just slaughtered a pig in the yard—a headless pig lay on its back in a large pot of steaming water, with a man skillfully scraping off its hair. On a makeshift table nearby sat the pig’s head, while a large black dog stood on its hind legs beside the table, sniffing repeatedly at the pig’s snout. At one end of the table was a large basin, where a woman stood vigorously stirring something with a short rolling pin. Several children ran around the yard, chasing and roughhousing with each other. The window opposite the door was open, and a group of men and women were noisily playing mahjong inside.

The bloody smell permeating the yard made me take a step back.

My biological father said, “See, it’s not the right time. You came so suddenly, and I was so flustered that I completely forgot about what was happening at their two houses today. Should we still go in?”

I shook my head involuntarily.

At that moment, the big black dog noticed me and charged out, barking fiercely.

My biological father stepped in front of me, trying to fend off the dog while calling out my second sister’s name.

My second sister came out of the yard, sleeves rolled up and her hands covered in blood. She froze when she saw me.

My biological father said, “She’s your younger sister, here to see you and your eldest sister. I’ve already taken her to see your eldest sister…”

I forced a smile.

“Oh, I see. I was just stirring the pig’s blood—look at my hands, I can’t even give you a proper hug…”

My second sister’s smile wasn’t forced at all; in fact, she seemed genuinely surprised and delighted.

My biological father said to me, “How about this? You wanted to see them, and I’ve completed my task. I need to go back and husk the corn—someone’s coming to collect it this afternoon. So… I’ll be off now?”

What could I say after he put it that way?

I gave a slight nod, and he immediately turned around and hurried away without looking back.

The big black dog was still baring its teeth at me.

My second sister pretended to kick it and shouted into the yard, “Zhao Kai, come out and tie up the dog!”

A teenager glided out of the yard on a skateboard, glanced at me indifferently, and bent down to try and grab the dog’s ears. The dog dodged him but didn’t run away, seemingly wanting to play.

The teenager got angry and threw his skateboard at the dog, hitting it squarely in the side. The dog yelped, dashed out of the yard, and fled.

I was nearly knocked over by the dog and was quite startled.

My second sister scolded, “You little troublemaker! It didn’t even bother you!”

After scolding him, she laughed and said to me, “That’s your second nephew, Zhao Kai. He’s already in junior high but doesn’t study properly. He’s always asking me for money to buy this and that, and it’s always toys! He takes after his father, always scheming about how to make a windfall. As if a windfall could come to a family like ours! Do we have that kind of luck?”

I just smiled. There was nothing else to do but smile.

My second sister went on chattering, “Our dad spent his whole life hoping for a son, and look how things turned out… My eldest sister and I each have a son, but unfortunately, they don’t carry the He family name! What’s so great about having sons anyway? When they reach marriageable age, won’t their parents have to pay for building a house? How many sons from rural families can earn enough money to build a house on their own at a young age?”

She emphasized the words “our dad” and “our sister.”

I forced another smile.

Though I didn’t think what happened back then was a misfortune for me, the word “son” still pierced my heart.A man inside the house called out loudly, "Son, who is it?"

Zhao Kai's voice answered, "Don't know them. They came empty-handed."

The window I could see through was promptly shut tight.

My second sister said apologetically, "It's not convenient to invite you inside either, with outsiders around."

I said, "It's fine."

"Then let's chat over here, just us sisters."

She stepped away from the doorway.

I followed her to the corner of the wall.

She pulled a handful of green grass, wiping the blood from her hands as she spoke. The pig she had just slaughtered was bought by Eldest Sister's Husband, but Eldest Sister couldn't keep it—it kept running off every few days, so she had to bring it back to her own home to raise on behalf of Eldest Sister's family. It could have still gained another few dozen pounds, but Eldest Sister's family had hired help to build a house, and serving meals without meat wasn't an option. In a few days, it would be her father-in-law's sixtieth birthday, and her husband wanted to host a big celebration, hoping to recoup some of the money they'd given as gifts over the years. With both families' affairs coinciding, the pig's time had come earlier than planned...

"We'll split it fifty-fifty with Eldest Sister's family, one side each. Raising a piglet to over two hundred pounds and then splitting it evenly—I'm taking a huge loss. But she's our eldest sister, right? What's a little loss between sisters? We should honor that bond, don't you think?"

She kept saying "our dad" and "our eldest sister," speaking with such intimacy, as if we had truly shared the same mother's milk, breathing the same air and sharing the same hardships.

I replied mechanically, "Right."

Truthfully, I wasn't the least bit interested in what she was saying.

She said that life had improved a bit for every household in the village. Farmers could now go out to work and earn cash, finally freeing generations of farmers who had been stifled by the word "money." Her husband was quite good at earning money outside, and her motivation for living had grown stronger.

"You saw it with your own eyes—our row of three large tile-roofed houses is quite impressive. Things that only city kids in the county town get to play with, like skateboards, my Zhao Kai has them too. He's never lacked toys since he was little. Whatever toy ends up in his hands, he often breaks it in no time. His dad spoils him even more than I do, never getting angry, just smiling and saying, 'Son, just think of it as your dad working a day or two for nothing. Next time, take better care of your new toy, okay?' What kind of life did we have growing up? Now that life is better and we have a bit of financial leeway to indulge our child, why not spoil him a little, right? Hey, little sister, your Principal Mother must be retiring soon, right? Is your dad still the deputy mayor?..."

After all, my second sister wasn't mentally unwell. She had opened the floodgates of conversation with me, chattering away without pause. She spoke so quickly that I couldn't get a word in edgewise.

I didn't tell her that my "Principal Mother" had passed away, nor did I mention that my adoptive father was no longer the deputy mayor but had become the mayor and was even a member of the provincial party committee.

The reality was, aside from the phrase "life is better," I didn't care for anything else she said.

I couldn't find the right words to say to her either.

"Zhao Jun! Zhao Jun, come out for a moment, and bring paper and a pen."

My second sister called out her daughter, my niece.

As the long-legged girl of about seventeen or eighteen eyed me speculatively, my second sister proudly said to her daughter, "This is your aunt, your mother's younger sister, your own aunt! Her father is a high-ranking official, and her mother is a famous person. From now on, you'll have a relative from an upper-class family. You and your brother, your generation, can look forward to benefiting from this!"

Zhao Jun retorted, "You've said this almost a hundred times already. Aren't you tired of it? What do you want? Just say it!"My second sister remained unoffended and said with a smile, "Well, since your aunt has taken the initiative to acknowledge us, go ahead and give her a hug on behalf of your mother."

Zhao Jun glared at her mother, visibly annoyed.

I had no choice but to say, "Maybe next time, not this time."

Second sister didn't seem embarrassed either and commanded her daughter, "Then next time it is. Hurry up and write down your aunt's contact address. From now on, you'll have to write to her regularly on behalf of our whole family, or else she might forget about us. Where else would you find such an aunt?"

I said that I spent most of my time at school, so sending letters there would actually be the fastest way for me to receive them. Compared to the cold reception I received at my eldest sister's house, my second sister's attitude toward me could almost be described as "not treating me like an outsider at all." Yet precisely because of this, I felt her affectionate gestures were too unreal. I felt as if I were in a play, playing the lead role. She was my supporting actress, and to make me immerse myself more in the role, she even tried to steal the spotlight.

I was afraid she might bring up some request that would put me in an awkward and difficult position, so I clearly stated that I had to leave.

She said, "Then I won't keep you any longer. As you can see, once the pig is gutted, I'll have to get back to cleaning the offal..."

I said, "Go ahead and get back to work."

I turned and left, eager to escape the "self-written and self-directed" plot.

If I hadn't come to Shenxianding, none of these scenes that I found so repulsive would have occurred.

Why did I have to come?

I remembered there seemed to be a reason, but for a moment, I couldn't recall it.

When I reached the village entrance, I saw my eldest nephew standing by the roadside.

The awkward "almost young man" said, "Aunt, can I walk you out?"

I couldn't bear to refuse and nodded.

He accompanied me down the mountain, explaining along the way that the county had originally planned to build the mountain road first and the village road later, but the villagers were afraid that after the mountain road was built, there wouldn't be enough money left for the village road. So they collectively and strongly demanded that the village road be built first. As a result, the village road was completed, but there wasn't enough money left for the mountain road. However, the county was still raising funds, and the mountain road would be built soon...

Compared to my second sister's words, I didn't mind what he said.

He stopped and pointed to the fields in the dam, saying, "Ten years ago, I caught loaches there with my aunt."

"Was that you?"

I was utterly astonished.

He smiled shyly.

I asked him how old he was.

He said he was already in his first semester of senior year of high school.

I asked him how his studies were.

He said he loved studying. The township high school was one of the county's key high schools, and his grades in the advanced class had always been among the top. Students placed in the advanced class all had hopes of getting into university. Given his mother's situation, his father couldn't afford to send him to college, so he had decided to join the army. Perhaps after becoming a soldier, he might still have a chance to take the military academy entrance exam...

His words were the most comforting ones I heard during that trip to Shenxianding. Although there was a sense of helplessness in them, the comfort was genuine.

He asked, "Aunt, do you support my decision to join the army?"

I said, "Absolutely. If you really get a chance to take the military academy exam, you must strive for it!"

He said, "Aunt, when you were at our house earlier, please don't be angry with us. My mother is like that—we normal people can't blame her. As for me, I was afraid my mother might have an episode. My father acted that way because, after all the calculations, the money for building the house still wasn't quite enough. For days, he had been angry with himself for tearing down the old house so early..."

I said, "I'm not angry."I suddenly hugged him, tears streaming down like a spring, as abruptly as when my second sister’s daughter had hugged me.

This nephew of mine, only two years younger than me, was the first relative to initiate such "intimate contact" with me since I came into this world. Though he didn’t bear the surname He but another, he was, after all, the son of my poor eldest sister! My immediate reaction wasn’t just because we had caught loaches together as children, but also because I saw a glimmer of hope in him—the hope that the next generation of my relatives might live a slightly better life than the previous one.

Ten years later, when I returned to Immortal Peak, it was actually to witness this possibility with my own eyes. As long as I saw it, even if we had no further contact and lived our separate lives, I would feel this trip was worthwhile.

If one has many relatives, yet they all live in poverty, what is such kinship but a misfortune for someone powerless to help?

If all relatives live carefree, happy, and peaceful lives, what does it matter if we never see each other again?

My second "visit" to Immortal Peak was, in fact, to find a basis for peace of mind in my own life. Having been pampered since childhood, I couldn’t bear the former kind of misfortune.

It wasn’t until then that I remembered there was something in my satchel, and I began to understand why my second sister kept glancing at it while talking to me, as if hoping I would reach inside.

I told Yang Hui that if he wanted to write to me, he could ask his second aunt for my mailing address. Then, I took three envelopes from my satchel and instructed him to give one to his grandfather, one to his second aunt, and one to his father. Each envelope contained the same amount—three thousand yuan. In 2002, three thousand yuan was no small sum. It was said that embezzling three thousand yuan of public funds could land someone in prison for about five years. For a rural family, three thousand yuan could sometimes be enough to rescue them from a crisis. For me, giving away nine thousand yuan all at once to others also required great resolve. It’s worth noting that I had never earned a single cent at that time—all the money I spent came from my parents. If "Principal Mother" and Grandma Yu hadn’t left me any money, even if I had the heart to give, I would have had no ability to do so.

My willingness to part with the money was to sever ties.

I was terrified of becoming someone with many poor relatives. Frankly, I was utterly afraid.

I refused to acknowledge that an old man on Immortal Peak, a mentally unstable woman, a scheming middle-aged woman, and their next generation had any familial connection to me.

I wanted to use nine thousand yuan to cut off this troublesome relationship with a clear conscience!

As I walked forward alone, I never looked back.

I guessed my eldest nephew was surely watching me leave.

I almost turned around to wave at him, but an extraordinary sense of rationality held me back.The sun was setting in the west. It was midsummer, and the surrounding scenery was exceptionally beautiful. Most young and middle-aged people had gone to work in other cities, leaving far fewer residents in the village. Some households now consisted only of the elderly and children, whose firewood needs were limited—a bundle of crop stalks was enough to cook a meal. Fewer people were cutting down the flowering trees on the mountains anymore. Moreover, forest management had become much stricter, including penalties for felling flowering trees. After years of protection, the area around Shenxianding was once again a landscape of blooming mountain flowers. Living amidst such natural beauty were generations of rural people oppressed by poverty, a stark contrast that made the scene before me feel dreamlike and unreal. Although my second sister had told me to my face that "life has improved," the changes in Shenxianding were insignificant compared to those in Yu County, Linjiang, and Guiyang—cities of varying sizes. If the transformations in these three cities over the past few decades could be described as "rapid and dramatic," the changes in Shenxianding were as slow as a snail's crawl, manifesting only as small-scale, piecemeal efforts by individual households.

My second visit to Shenxianding was not exactly a search for roots, yet it felt like one, deeply impressing upon me the vast gap between the development of China's cities and its rural areas.

The undeniable fact that my "roots" lay in Shenxianding filled me with a sense of helpless dread.

Carrying this dread, I returned home.

At home, I stumbled upon a scene that left me stunned—in the study, under the glow of a desk lamp, my adoptive father sat in a chair, with a woman around the same age as my "Principal Mother" standing before him. He had his arms around her waist, resting his head against her chest, while she gently stroked his hair with one hand and placed the other on his shoulder.

The moment I pushed the door open, I wished I were blind.

My adoptive father followed me into my room shortly after.

I shouted at him, "Get out!"

He said sternly, "It's not what you think. I'll explain tomorrow..."

"You'd better never explain! I don't want to hear it!"

My voice grew even louder.

"She was a close friend of your mother's, a friend we both shared!..." my adoptive father's voice also rose.

"That makes it even more shameful!"

"Shut up! You have no right to judge!"

His tone had changed completely.

He was furious and embarrassed.

The word "right" instantly calmed me down.

I said coldly, "I need to sleep. Could you please leave my room?"

He stared at me blankly for a moment before slamming the door and leaving.

In the middle of the night, I dragged my suitcase and left the place I had lived for twenty years but no longer felt I had the "right" to call home, checking into the best hotel in Yu County. It was built in 2000, financed by my adoptive father for the county and designed by professionals he hired. That same year, I started university, and the suitcase was a gift from him. Aside from that hotel, staying anywhere else might have led to someone recognizing me, sparking unnecessary suspicion and gossip. My fame in Yu County was too great and had only grown with his political achievements. Apart from the suitcase he bought me, I had no other travel belongings.

Early the next morning, I called home to apologize to my adoptive father for my rudeness the previous night. I told him my emotions had settled and that I would return directly to school, asking him not to worry about me.He also criticized himself for his lack of patience with me the night before. He explained that the aunt was not only a mutual friend of my "Principal Mother" and him but also the witness at their wedding. Due to certain "historical reasons" that I, as a child, couldn’t fully understand, she had never married. My "Principal Mother" had often said, half-jokingly and half-seriously, in front of him and that aunt: "If I pass away before Zisi, you must take care of him for me."

My adoptive father’s explanation sounded like something out of a novel.

I said, "Dad, the relationship between you adults moves me deeply, and I will never speak carelessly about it again."

He sensed that I wasn’t entirely convinced and added with emphasis, "Your 'Principal Mother' also left a letter for me and that aunt. When you come back, I can show it to you. Don’t think that just because your 'Principal Mother' is no longer here, this place is no longer your home. This will always be your home!"

I said, "Dad, I understand."

In truth, I had indeed come to realize that the "place" I once yearned for was no longer my "home."

How could it still be my "home"?

If I were to return, the presence of an aunt I had never met before would already make me feel awkward enough. What if, in the future, more of her relatives and acquaintances were added to the mix? How would I handle those relationships? How could I possibly face such a situation?

I recalled what Han Bin had said to me: "It's complicated, far too complicated."

I began to understand Han Bin a little.

Even if I believed my Adoptive Father's words one hundred percent, I would still find it difficult to accept relationships that were "complicated, far too complicated."

Besides, I didn't fully believe his words anyway.

The next morning, I went straight from the hotel back to school.

Suddenly, my life had a goal—not a direction, but a clear, stage-specific objective: to study twice as hard, strive to graduate with the best possible grades, then pursue a master's degree, and perhaps even a doctorate.

But I hadn't yet decided on a specific discipline or major.

One thing was clear to me—I should no longer rely on anyone else for my life. My Adoptive Mother had already passed away, and continuing to depend on my Adoptive Father's life would be such a pitiful, lowly existence!

I was about to begin experiencing the kind of "real life" that Principal Mother had spoken of!

However, my efforts were soon dashed.

In the student cafeteria, during the busiest mealtime, a female student from the art school whom I had never met before slapped me in front of everyone.

She was Han Bin's ex-girlfriend, and they had "reconciled." She blamed me for the temporary breakdown of their relationship, even though I had no idea Han Bin ever had a girlfriend.

In a moment of panic, I threw a bowl of hot soup in her face, and she was scalded.

I received disciplinary action and once again became a "celebrity" on campus.

But I developed a much stronger resilience, and my determination to study hard wasn't too affected by the incident.

What truly dashed my efforts were the people from Shenxianding—strangers who claimed to be related to me.

First, I started receiving more letters. These "relatives" demanded that I use Mayor Father's influence to help them with various matters or solve their problems. Since my two brothers-in-law were considered my relatives, their relatives' relatives naturally counted as well.

Once, I answered a call from my Adoptive Father in the dormitory hallway.

He said that my "relatives" often came to see him and asked me to tell them that if they had any difficulties or issues, they should first report them to the government through the appropriate channels, such as the petition office.

My Adoptive Father's words were very tactful, but I could tell he was overwhelmed by the constant disturbances.

The year 2002 was a time when many social issues were emerging in China.

And I was also overwhelmed—"relatives" often came looking for me at my dormitory or even at the classroom door. At one point, over a dozen petitioners were waiting outside the school gates.

Their reasoning was: "Who told you you're from Shenxianding? Who told you your father is the mayor? Isn't it easier to see you than the mayor? If we don't come to you, who else can we turn to? Can't you give us this little convenience?"

"If one day you and your Adoptive Father drift apart, won't we lose our chance to benefit?"

The school administration called me in for a talk, sternly pointing out—the school was not a petition office, and I had to find a way to put an end to such incidents...One day, while my dormmates were all in class, I left a letter behind and fled the school in a panic.

In 2002, aside from Beijing and Shanghai, Shenzhen was the city that most attracted young people seeking opportunities.

I boarded a flight to Shenzhen.

Direction? I didn’t even have a short-term goal anymore. I had grown weary of my so-called "destiny" and was determined to start my "real life" somewhere new.

As the plane took off, I whispered to myself—farewell, Shenxianding. I’ve dug up the roots I planted in you and taken them with me. From now on, I have nothing more to do with you. Goodbye, Yuxian. The only time I’ll return to your embrace will be on some future Qingming Festival, when I come back to pay my respects to my "Principal Mother"…

That night, I slept soundly at the airport hotel in Shenzhen.

Every step I took followed the plan I had made the night before.

From then on, I became a highly rational girl who approached every decision with careful planning and methodical steps.

But rationality aside, I was in a strange city, with no family or friends in sight.