People always have to grab something

Four shadows stretched across the ground—two taller, two shorter.

The dogtooth grass, yellowed and wilted in winter, lay flat.

Though small, Xinjiang and Baota walked quickly, familiar with the terrain.

Soon, the four reached Xinjiang’s home.

Before entering, Xinjiang shouted toward the house, “Grandma, the Book House sisters are here!”

Her dialect made “sisters” sound like “zhai zhai,” unique and charming.

Coming empty-handed for a meal, Ming Shuzhen felt a bit embarrassed.

But seeing Xinjiang’s grandma, a kind elderly woman, eased her. Despite wrinkled skin hinting at advanced age, her eyes sparkled with wisdom.

“Hello, Grandma,” Ming Shuzhen and Ming Shuyan greeted.

“We’re Book House inspectors. Xinjiang and Baota said your food’s delicious, so we shamelessly came. Sorry to intrude,” Ming Shuyan said, polite like a junior.

“No intrusion! I’m thrilled you’re here,” Grandma replied, switching to Mandarin for their sake, though her local accent colored it, still clear enough.

Named Li Chunhua, in her eighties, she moved nimbly.

“I made extra rice. Eat up—it livens the place,” she said.

Chunhua brought large bowls from the stove: steamed rice, cauliflower, root vegetables…

“All homegrown, no pesticides, organic,” she boasted.

Ming Shuzhen helped carry bowls. “Grandma, you know ‘organic’?”

“Heh, I listen to the radio, watch movies at the village square. I can keep up with you youngsters,” Chunhua said proudly.

“Eat here, and I love chatting with young folks,” she straightened. “When you’re old, you gotta chase fresh air.”

“Fresh air?” Ming Shuzhen admired her phrasing.

“Haha, it’s nothing,” Chunhua’s wrinkles curved charmingly as she smiled.

Ming Shuyan, Xinjiang, and Baota set up the table; everyone grabbed stools to sit around it.

“Wow, braised pork today!” Xinjiang’s eyes lit up.

“Star anise, bay leaves, cinnamon—stewed till tender,” Chunhua said, using clean chopsticks to serve everyone before eating.

“Try it.”

“Yum!” Ming Shuzhen’s eyes shone.

Chunhua, pleased with the praise, served herself a piece with rice.

Ming Shuzhen noticed she treated Xinjiang and Baota as equals, not dismissing them as kids. Unlike adults who patronize children, she explained the pork’s ingredients and why it was so tender.

No wonder Xinjiang was so sharp and knowledgeable.

During the meal, Ming Shuzhen learned Chunhua was a former village schoolteacher.

In her era, families favored boys for education. But, an only child due to her mother’s frail health, Chunhua was supported. Beyond mandatory literacy night classes, she attended normal school.

Later, she scrimped to send her daughter—Xinjiang’s mom—to university.

Ming Shuzhen was stunned Xinjiang’s mom had a degree.

“Not just that,” Chunhua beamed about her daughter. “She’s strong-willed. After university, she taught high school, then prepared for grad school. I supported her, said don’t slack on teaching, but go for it.”

“She got in, but the school wouldn’t let her go. I told her, you worked hard for this, I’ll keep supporting you. She quit, focused on her master’s.”

“After graduating, the school begged her back. She grumbled it was pointless, back to teaching, spending so much.”

Ming Shuzhen nodded, engrossed.

Chunhua laughed. “Usefulness isn’t that simple. By thirty, I asked about marriage. She refused, so I let her be.”

“Then how’d Xinjiang happen?” Ming Shuzhen asked.

Xinjiang giggled at her name.

“My daughter wasn’t content teaching. Wanted a PhD. I said, PhD needs English—she barely knew any,” Chunhua continued.

“Did she get in?” Ming Shuzhen, impatient, interrupted.

“She did. Schools hesitated—she was older, unmarried. She wrote letters, her calligraphy stunning. A professor, thinking a man wrote it, accepted her. Realizing she was a woman, he couldn’t back out,” Chunhua laughed at the mix-up.

Ming Shuzhen was thrilled but held back more questions.

“She’s at a research institute now, settled,” Chunhua sighed.

“First year of her PhD, she had Xinjiang, writing reports pregnant. I said, you’re tricking them—accepted, then distracted.”

Chunhua didn’t mention Xinjiang’s father, implying her mom never married.

The braised pork lost its flavor for Ming Shuzhen.

She’d assumed Xinjiang’s parents were migrant workers, not that her mom was a researcher. Why not take Xinjiang along?

She couldn’t ask, especially not in front of Xinjiang, but felt a pang for her mom’s independence.

Leaving Xinjiang’s home, Ming Shuzhen and Ming Shuyan crossed the vegetable field again.

Ming Shuzhen was quiet. Without her starting, Ming Shuyan rarely spoke up.

“Everyone here has a story,” Ming Shuzhen said, eyeing the burnt-looking dogtooth grass.

“Of course. Everyone’s lived long enough to have one,” Ming Shuyan replied evenly, without sentiment.

“Mm.” Ming Shuzhen fell silent, thinking of Liu Wenjing, aiding the village, and Song Jin, teaching.

“Boss, you got a story?”

“Me?” Ming Shuyan looked ahead.

After a pause, she sighed. “Yeah, want to hear it?”

“If you can tell it, I’d love to,” Ming Shuzhen said lightly, fearless.

“Mm…” Ming Shuyan considered. Without Xinjiang and Baota, their pace slowed, enough time to share.

“My family always wanted a son, but my mom couldn’t have one,” she began, voice detached, like a night-blooming cereus unfolding.

“Later, my dad found another woman—my stepmom. She was decent, treated me okay. At least at school parent meetings, my seat wasn’t empty.”

“Once they confirmed she was pregnant with a boy, Dad divorced Mom and married her. When my stepmom had the boy, Dad was thrilled.” Ming Shuyan closed her eyes briefly, then looked at the road.

“You studied biology—know a child’s gender comes from the father, right?” she asked.

“…Yeah,” Ming Shuzhen, caught off guard by the story, felt uneasy.

“I used to wonder why Mom couldn’t have a boy, yet Stepmom did first try,” Ming Shuyan frowned. “Turns out, Dad was fated to have no son.”

“A test showed the boy wasn’t his,” she stopped there, as they left the field.

The ground softened, free of dogtooth grass.

Ming Shuzhen pressed, “Then what?”

“Then…” Ming Shuyan’s tone stayed flat, though her brow furrowed slightly. “Dad threw the boy, and he died.”

“What?” Ming Shuzhen, shocked, turned to her, confirming she heard right.

Ming Shuyan didn’t elaborate—whether the infant’s skull shattered instantly or he cried, struggling before dying.

At an age when her worldview was forming, what impact had that scene had?

She said nothing more; Ming Shuzhen didn’t dare imagine.

Silence fell, and Ming Shuzhen felt that familiar stomach and heart pain, lighter this time, tingling briefly.

Staring ahead, she ached for her boss.

“Didn’t… didn’t your dad go to jail?” Ming Shuzhen asked, instantly regretting the dumb question.

“Nah,” Ming Shuyan said lightly. “Said the boy got sick and died.”

“What about your stepmom?”

“Don’t know,” Ming Shuyan frowned. “Maybe with my mom. Never saw her again.”

“With your mom?” Ming Shuzhen was confused.

“Yeah,” Ming Shuyan shared her family story for the first time. “Mom had too many pregnancies, ruined her health. Dad said he’d send her to a sanatorium, but after Stepmom, he claimed Mom was mentally ill, sending her to a psychiatric hospital.”

Ming Shuzhen gasped, speechless beyond a sound.

“It wasn’t a big hospital—Dad’s business, not really open, just for Mom and Stepmom.”

Ming Shuzhen wanted to ask if she’d visited but couldn’t.

“Sorry, Boss, I shouldn’t have asked for a story,” she said, hurt but unsure for whom.

“It’s fine,” Ming Shuyan smiled. “I wanted to tell it.”

“People need to grab onto something,” she looked at Ming Shuzhen, gaze deep, hinting at more.

Ming Shuzhen, clueless, stared back blankly.