Chapter 6
Edward Quan ·
“Have you ever regretted marrying Father?”
She was silent for a moment.
“No.”
“Truly?”
“Truly. Your father is a good man. He's treated me well and never let me be wronged. What would I have to regret?”
“But have you been happy?”
She fell silent.
I knew she hadn't lied.
She truly was satisfied with Father.
And she truly hadn't been happy.
Not because she'd married the wrong man.
Because after marrying, she'd stopped being herself.
“Mother, I don't regret it.”
“Why?”
“Because I've been myself all my life.”
She looked at me, her eyes slowly reddening.
“A-Ning, you're remarkable.”
“Not remarkable. Clear-sighted.”
“About what?”
“What I want and what I don't. What I can hold on to and what I can't. What matters most in this life.”
“What is it?”
I looked at her and spoke slowly.
“You. Father. A-Fu. This family.
“And myself.”
Mother cried.
She held me and cried for a long time.
Then she wiped her tears.
“A-Ning, the greatest wrong I've done you in this life is—”
“You haven't.”
“I have. I always wanted you to marry. Always wanted you to be like other families' daughters. I was wrong.”
“You weren't. You only wanted what was best for me.”
“But it wasn't what you wanted.”
“I know. But I don't blame you.”
Her eyes were still red as she looked at me.
“Mother, you've done so much for me. Cooked me lovely food, made me new clothes, stayed up all night when I was ill. I remember all of it.
“You wanted me to marry because you thought marriage was the only way to live well. You didn't know a woman could live well without it.
“Now you do.
“That's enough.”
Mother cried again.
This time, she laughed through her tears.
I was twenty-eight that year. Mother was fifty.
Suddenly, I realized I wasn't the only one who had grown over the years.
Mother and I had grown together.
Later, Father reached the rank of Minister. He retired and returned to his hometown at sixty.
A-Fu had three children: two boys and a girl. At festivals and New Year, he brought them to visit me.
They called me “Eldest Aunt” and asked why I hadn't married.
“Too much effort.”
They laughed.
Mother lived to seventy. On the day she died, she held my hand.
“A-Ning, are you living well?”
“Yes.”
“Truly?”
“Truly.”
She smiled.
“Then I can rest easy.”
Father died three years after Mother.
Before he went, he told me, “Bruiser, you've surpassed your father.”
“I know.”
He glared at me, then laughed.
A-Fu followed in Father's footsteps and entered official life.
Before taking up his post, he asked, “Sister, any advice?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“When you write comments on official papers, waste fewer words.”
He stared for a moment, then laughed so hard he couldn't straighten up.
7.
In this life, I never married, never had children, never held office.
But I think I've lived well.
Because I see more clearly than anyone.
I know what I want and what I don't.
I know what matters most in this life.
Myself.
Mother, Father, A-Fu, and the children who watched me grow up.
Every day that gives me a reason to laugh.
That's enough.
It truly is.
Later, someone asked me, “Do you have any regrets in this life?”
I thought for a moment.
“Yes.”
“What?”
“That I didn't give A-Fu a few more beatings.”
The person stared.
I laughed.
A-Fu was beside me and heard.
“Sister, I'm fifty. You still want to hit me?”
“Yes.”
“Then go ahead.”
“Never mind. Too much effort.”
He laughed again.
He laughed and laughed, until his eyes turned red.
“Sister, thank you.”
“For what?”
“For being yourself all your life.”
I looked at him and suddenly felt...
This life had been worth it.
— THE END —