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Chapter 6
I always felt deeply insecure around my younger brother.
He would point at my cracked fingers and shout, “You country folk, do you even know what
McDonald’s is? What about Pizza Hut? You smell
like cows.”
He’d embarrass me in public, leaving me feeling ashamed and flustered.
He could throw a tantrum over a speck of mud
on his shoes and crawl into our parents‘ arms.
I’d stand by, too scared to even ask for a hug.
Later, our parents bought a three–bedroom
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apartment.
One for them, one for my brother, and one as a guest room–while I still lived in the countryside.
During summer vacation, they’d graciously invite me to stay for a while.
I’ll never forget when my brother jammed his little shoes at the door and houted at my
plastic bag, “You stinky country bumpkin, get out of my house.”
I lowered my head, embarrassed, gripping my plastic sandals with my toes as tears welled up
in my eyes.
My parents bent down, trying to bribe him with promises just to let me in.
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“Mom and Dad have to work, no time to take care of you. Your sister’s here to cook and clean for you. If you agree, I’ll buy you a Transformer.”
“Plus, she can help you with your studies. Come on, do it for Dad!”
The whole summer I cooked endless meals, washed piles of clothes, all while enduring my brother’s insults.
And usually, before summer even ended, they’d send me back to the countryside.
They said it was inconvenient for me to stay, without explaining how or for whom.
As soon as I stepped out the door, Mom was already disinfecting every corner of the house.
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The spray scattered in the sunlight like mist or flowers.
Beautiful, but sad.
I eventually got used to staying in the countryside with Grandma.
I got accustomed to rolling in the mud in summer and chopping firew d with her in
winter.
The neighbors‘ dogs, the geese–everyone around called me “big brother.”
After I played all day, Grandma would wipe the mud off my face with her worn–out cloth and smile, calling me, “My sweet darling.”
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But good days always come to an end.
That winter, the firewood I stacked was barely as tall as I was when my parents came back.
They wanted to take me away. I refused, and they got angry.
Irritated, they asked if I’d choose them or stay with Grandma.
Grandma made the decision for me, sternly telling them to take me away.
I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was
off.
Mom casually tossed six hundred yuan to
Grandma.
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I told Grandma to wait for me–I’d definitely be back soon. She nodded repeatedly.
Before I left, she put on the new clothes she kept at the bottom of her cabinet and asked me
if she looked nice.
I touched the round golden pattern on her
clothes and nodded.
“Yeah, you look great.”
I was too young then to recognize funeral clothes or realize I was seeing Grandma for the
last time.
Grandma affectionately touched my head and gave me some advice.
I leaned against the shaky bus window,
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watching Grandma’s stooped figure grow smaller until she shut the door, like an old story reaching its end.
On my way back, I found the six hundred yuan in my pocket.
I later learned that my parents had come for me because Grandma was gravely ill, her days
numbered.
Once again, my parents le me alone at home to take my brother to calligraphy class, and I missed Grandma even more.
Then a phone call hit me like a bolt from the
blue.
Grandma had passed away. I begged my parents to let me see her one last time.
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Dad hesitated, but Mom, indifferent, insisted on taking my brother to his class and refused.
After a symbolic argument, they reached a
consensus.
My brother was more important.
They left me crying and wailing at the school entrance, a spectacle for everyone.
They even held Grandma’s funeral without me, sparing themselves from my whimpering.
Grandma vanished like a speck of dust, silently and without a trace.
But memories are as heavy as a mountain, suffocating me endlessly.
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Losing a loved one isn’t a storm; it’s a lifetime of dampness.
I felt it was my fault, like I shouldn’t have left Grandma, like I made the wrong choice.
I was stuck in this dampness, stirring storms on the calmest days.
Years passed, and the little old lady stayed mad, never visiting me in my dims.
Even when I died, she didn’t come to see me.
During Christmas, I lingered at my parents‘ house, watching them visit friends and family cheerfully.
But in the depths of night, they each seemed
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troubled.
Dad tossed and turned, sleepless, and found Mom sitting at the bedside, staring, clutching an envelope with a hundred dollars.
They were like flames in the snow, seeking warmth from each other, consoling one another.
“Stella’s grown now; she should be able to take care of herself, right?”
Dad nodded hesitantly.
“Yeah, Stella could do everything as a kid. She’ll be fine on her own, don’t worry.”
It was unclear if they were reassuring Mom or themselves.
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Perhaps even they felt this winter night could be deadly.
But it seemed it was okay for Stella to be
forgotten.
