Later, my wife was cremated. We handled the death certificate, updated her household registration status, and my mother-in-law was discharged from the hospital. Though Huang Cheng was a premature baby, he was healthy, and the hospital allowed us to take him home.
Back then, my father-in-law held the urn, my mother-in-law clinging to his arm for support. I followed behind, holding Huang Cheng in my arms. When we pushed open the door to our home, our eyes fell on the bedroom—mine and Li Fang's—off the living room. We all broke down crying. And when the adults wept, the baby cried too. But there was no other way. Life had to go on.
That night, the baby slept with my in-laws. I sat alone on the edge of the bed. The moon was unusually full that night. I took out Li Fang's clothes and folded them. I pulled on the gloves and scarf she'd knitted for me. Memories flooded in: Li Fang applying dog-skin plaster to my aching lower back; her morning sickness during pregnancy, when she couldn't keep anything down and craved White Rabbit milk candy; the times I'd been so exhausted I'd laid my head in her arms like a little boy.
I sat on her side of the bed, like a fool, all night long. I still couldn't accept she was gone. I'd turn to look at the bed, and there was nothing. The ache was unbearable. I'd never understood what it meant to miss someone so much it hurt—until now. It was a searing, heart-ripping pain. I cried several times that night. I still couldn't wrap my head around a life without Li Fang. I was scared. Truly scared.
The 2000 Spring Festival would be the hardest to get through.