Chapter Twenty: Returning Home

The Liu Cui family were demolition residents from Daxing, Beijing. When their home was torn down in 2012, they received three apartments—one for her mother, one for her sister, and one for Liu Cui herself. In truth, they weren’t wealthy. Liu Cui had been divorced several times, raising a pair of twins, now six or seven years old. Her father-in-law was deaf and mute, unable to hear or speak, and her mother-in-law? A fierce shrew, boisterous and shameless—the tale of her exploits is best saved for later.

Around 2018 or 2019, each apartment was conservatively valued at more than three million. I admit I had selfish motives; I was tired, and saw no hope ahead. So, without much thought, I felt it made no difference whom I married—man, woman, beast, it was all the same; life was life. Thus, after less than three months of acquaintance, we hurried into cohabitation. In May 2018, I brought the whole family north to visit my home in the Northeast. The trip wasn’t really about meeting my parents, but rather my mother’s wish to see Harbin, and to drop by the family home on the way.

My grandmother was still alive then, though her health was poor, plagued by chronic bronchitis and asthma, weighing less than eighty pounds, eating little and sleeping badly. I brought my wife home, and she was genuinely happy to see us.

After the introductions, my mother-in-law launched into the proud Beijinger’s boasting and chatting style, her every sentence beginning with “we Beijingers this, we Beijingers that,” waxing about property prices per square meter, how hard their lives had been, how they came to be where they are…

Out of respect for our guests, even though my grandfather didn’t take to them, we could only smile and play along.

Lunch was arranged at my second uncle’s house, not far away, so my grandfather and I headed over first. On the way, he told me, “Now that you’re married, live well. Don’t be like before, running here and there, never settling. Treat her right and make a proper home.”

I replied, “I’m not planning to get a marriage certificate.”

He asked, “Why not?”

I said, “She’s just a substitute. There’s no real affection.”

He pressed, “What’s the story then?”

I shrugged, “It doesn’t matter. Life with anyone is the same—rice, oil, salt, and all the trivialities. It’s all the same to me.”

He said, “That’s not true. If you’re making a home, get the certificate. Otherwise, one day her ex-husband or some other man comes along, what will you say? You have no security. It’s better to make it official.”

I thought he was right.

He asked, “How long are you staying this time?”

I said, “Just two or three days.”

He wondered, “Why so rushed?”

I explained, “Mostly we’re planning to travel to Harbin, and just dropping by home.”

He nodded, “That’s about what I figured.”

I asked, “How could you tell?”

He replied, “Just look at them, the way they carry themselves. Your aunt won’t even give them a proper look.”

I asked, “My aunt has objections?”

He said, “Really, everyone’s got reservations. No one quite approves of this. Divorced, with kids, and not good-looking either. Quarrelsome, doesn’t seem like a decent family. Frankly, I don’t think you two will last.”

I replied, “That’s how I see it too. Let’s deal with things as they come. Like my father—a halfway marriage never lasts long.”

He said, “Your aunt thinks you’re just saving money, compromising yourself. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have ended up with someone like that.”

I replied, “My aunt really knows me.”

He said, “Don’t blame yourself too much. If your father had any capability, like others, he could have built a house and found you a wife, but he’s bounced from one woman to another—five or six now, all nonsense.”

I said, “Enough, Grandpa. The past is past, it doesn’t mean much now.”

He said, “At my age, I’ve got nothing left—no money, no property. Whatever little I had, your father squandered. I can't guide you anymore; every grandchild has their own fate. Who knows, a few years from now when you return, maybe only one of us will be left—maybe none.”

I said, “You’re not so old yet.”

He replied, “Already seventy. Each day could be the last. Who knows if I’ll wake up tomorrow? I’ll live as long as I can. If I see your grandmother through, I’ll have no worries. My only fear is dying before her—she’s so frail, eats barely half a bowl a meal, coughs all night. This is how we’ve lived, half a lifetime gone.”

I said, “Don’t think too much, Grandpa. Isn’t my second uncle good to you both? Even though we’re all away, he and his family are here, and you have a great-grandson. Isn’t that better than those other old folks in the village?”

He said, “You’re right. Your father may lack ability, but at least he doesn’t cause trouble. He’s just simple-minded, never saves money, always alone. He’s the one I worry about most. You should look after him more. I’m old, I can’t help anymore. You’re his only son—if you don’t, no one will.”

Perhaps age brings endless words. Listening to him left me uneasy. In the blink of an eye, childhood seemed as near as yesterday, or the day before—it all passed so quickly. Truly, one leaves home young, pack on their back, and returns with a face full of melancholy.