The doctor said it was serious. Surgery was needed as soon as possible.
The family needed to prepare the money.
None of the three children wanted to pay.
The eldest daughter-in-law made sarcastic remarks—whoever had the money could pay, but they certainly weren't going to shell out for this.
The eldest uncle opened his mouth, but in the end, nothing came out.
The youngest son's family was doing decently, but he couldn't bring himself to spend that kind of money on a surgery that might not even work.
The youngest daughter's life was a mess. She just sat there with her head down, unable to say a word.
An old neighbor of Grandma's somehow heard the news that she was critically ill.
She came rushing to the hospital, two thousand yuan tucked in her bag.
In the hospital corridor—
She knew she had no right to tell other people's children whether or not to save their mother.
She just grabbed the youngest son's hand.
Tears streaming, she choked out:
That's your mother. Your only mother.
You can't forget where you come from.
The eldest son had never done an honest day's work—he'd always left his messes for his mother to clean up.
The youngest son had never amounted to much—his mother had swept streets for over a decade to pay off his car loan, and was still paying his mortgage.
The youngest daughter was worse still—she'd dumped her burden, her own child, and stayed away for over a decade.
The youngest son's eyes welled with a few tears. He called the doctor over.
He said he'd sell everything he owned to save his mother. Even if there was no hope—at least there'd be no regrets.
And so, Grandma—tubes bristling from her body—was wheeled into surgery.
A trembling hand signed the critical condition notice.
That was when it hit us. Maybe this was truly life and death.
Someone suddenly remembered me—still in class, knowing nothing.
Me, who'd last seen Grandma making king oyster mushroom stir-fry.
Me, who'd left the house while Grandma reminded me to bring an umbrella.
Grandma, who always patted my head and said everything would be okay.
Grandma, who used her rough hands to wipe the rain from my hair.
Grandma, who I was always snapping at, who forgave me every time.
Grandma, who—
Over a decade ago—
Pulled me out of the rain.
The only person in this world—
Who still loved me.
When my homeroom teacher called me out of class—
A thread of unease wound through me.
That feeling only intensified when I got into my second uncle's car.
I guessed what had happened.
But I didn't dare let myself think it.
I kept telling myself it would be fine—maybe it was something else.
But the moment I reached the emergency room doors—
All that hope collapsed.
I dropped to my knees.
And wept without sound.
What was I thinking in that moment?
Facing the sterile white walls of the hospital—
As if on a pilgrimage.
I called upon every deity in my heart.
I prayed.
I screamed.
I raged.
I begged.
I prostrated myself.
That day, I pleaded with every god there was.
I prayed in my heart:
God, if you must take someone—take me. Don't take my Grandma.
My Grandma—her whole life has been nothing but suffering.
She never had a single good day. Never tasted a single moment of happiness.
Perhaps there were simply too many pilgrims that day.
No merciful deity heard my prayer.
Through the ringing in my ears—
I caught fragments of words.
A figure in a white coat.
Shaking his head with regret.
He said to bring her home while she's still breathing.
Go home. Return to the origin of the soul.
Return to where it all began.
To the roots.
Everyone is a leaf.
Drifting in the world for far too long.
All leaves must return to their roots in the end.
And so, Grandma—cold all over—was wheeled out.
An oxygen mask still on her face.
Her eyes shut tight.
Perhaps those children had worn masks in society for so long—so long that the masks had fused to their skin—
That the tears they finally shed were ones that seeped out from behind those masks.
Precious. Rare tears.
I stumbled to Grandma's side. I reached for her hand.
It was ice cold—but I remembered so clearly how those hands had always been warm when they touched me.
I cupped her hands between mine, crying, but I couldn't warm them no matter what.
I gently shook Grandma.
I said: Grandma, say something. Talk to me.
Look at me. Look at me!
It's me. Tingting.
You promised me you were going to live to a hundred. How could you lie?
You said you'd watch me get into a good high school, a good university! You said you'd watch me get married!
Grandma, open your eyes and look at me.
I still want your king oyster mushroom stir-fry.
I'm still waiting for you to dry my hair!
Grandma, wake up.
I promise I won't make you angry anymore.
Grandma.
I'm sorry.
Grandma.
Wake up. Look at me, please.
I poured out all the words I'd kept locked in my heart to a face that would never open its eyes again.
But she would never hear them.
The day Grandma was buried—
Was bright and sunny.
I'd always hated rainy days.
But that day, I decided sunshine was the cruelest thing in the world.
Grandma lay quietly in the casket.
Dressed in beautiful clothes.
Clothes so beautiful—she'd only ever gotten to wear them in death.
As custom dictated, the funeral included a feast for guests.
In our hometown tradition—
You served Eight Bowls.
Not eight bowls of rice.
But eight courses, each made from different meats.
I'd always loved meat as a kid.
Every day I'd hope someone nearby was having a wedding or a funeral.
So Grandma could take me to eat Eight Bowls.
Grandma would pile meat onto my little bowl, layer after layer.
This time, Grandma wasn't beside me.
I sat in my seat.
Eating, eating—and then I started crying.
Grandma's nagging voice echoed in my mind.
Don't cry while eating. You'll choke.
I set down my chopsticks. Just sat there.
And wept openly.
You don't feel the pain in the moment.
That's just the mask you wear to survive.
But when it suddenly hits you—
That there are people and things you'll never see again—
You snap back.
And realize—it has already become a wound.
A loss you'll spend your whole life unable to mend.
Regret. The impossible acceptance of the way things are.
Grandma.
I miss you so much.
Do you?
Do you miss me too?
6
After Grandma passed.
I sank into a deep depression.
I couldn't accept what had happened to me.
The sudden separation—torn from the person I loved most.
It was a chasm my fifteen-year-old self couldn't cross.
The last time I lay slumped at my desk—
Hoping that if I fell asleep, I'd never wake up again—
I found the study schedule I'd written for myself.
It was covered, front to back.
With nothing but hope and expectation for the future.
Lucas raising his head toward me in the rain.
I traced the words I'd written in my own hand.
Watching the ink blur as tears dripped onto it.
I had a dream.
Grandma was still alive.
And she was happy.
In the dream, I told her I'd gotten into a top high school.
Grandma beamed and said she'd make me king oyster mushroom stir-fry.
I wanted to wrap my arms around the Grandma in the dream.
But before I could touch her—
I woke up.
My vision was swimming again.
Oh—I'd been crying in my sleep again.
I pulled back the curtain at the classroom window.
The weather was beautiful.
I silently wished for rain.
And sat up.
I picked up the study schedule and pressed it solemnly onto my desk.
I knew.
And Grandma knew too.
I could do this.
In the second semester of ninth grade, at the class-placement exam—
I rocketed into the top class.
I even earned a spot for the direct-admission exam.
My former classmates started pointing and whispering when they saw me.
They'd gather in clusters, shooting me glances and exchanging hushed secrets.
They told everyone I'd cheated my way in.
People who barely knew me—
Who smugly declared how well they understood my character.
Most people believe only what they want to believe.
I became utterly alone.
Everything I did, I did by myself.
Fetching water alone.
Studying alone.
Walking home alone.
Cooking alone.
Eating alone.
Sleeping alone.
I had no interest in arguing over something so patently absurd. I just did what I had to do.
With every incremental improvement, I stept closer toward the shore I wanted to reach.
I firmly believed that as long as I didn't give up and didn't abandon myself—
My season would come eventually.
My homeroom teacher informed me that I'd passed the direct-admission exam.
I'd finally touched a place that had once seemed impossibly out of reach.
That day after school, I walked down the dark stairway by myself, feeling my way through the dim.
The light was so faint I couldn't see the steps.
But even now, all these years later—
I still think of it as the brightest path I ever walked.
Shi Tiesheng wrote: Regard the doubting glances of others as mere ghost fires. Walk your own dark road boldly.
At the time, I couldn't find the words to describe how I felt.
Years later, when I read that passage by Shi Tiesheng, it resonated with me to my core.
Grandma...
Look.
I did it.
7
After starting high school, I saw Lucas again.
He'd changed.
He started trying different dishes at the cafeteria.
Dishes he'd never touched before.
His eyes, which used to always be cast down in gentle detachment, no longer drifted lazily.
Now they settled on one place—transfixed.
Many times, using file deliveries as an excuse, I'd sneak up to the second-year building to look at him.
He'd invariably be standing in the hallway outside his classroom.
Head tilted back, gazing up at something.
I followed his line of sight.
And found a girl gnawing on a bun.
The files slipped from my hands and scattered across the floor.
Just like my heart—shattered and withering.
I thought about it for a long, long time.
I asked myself where, exactly, I'd lost.
That girl looked ordinary enough.
Her grades seemed unremarkable.
I didn't understand.
What did "special" even mean?