一
The twenty-third day of the twelfth lunar month. Little New Year.
This is when it starts. Not the holiday itself, but the preparation. In China, we say "过年"—"passing the year"—as if the new year is something you must survive, must work toward, must earn through labor. And labor there is: cleaning, cooking, shopping, traveling. All of it leading to that one night, that one meal, that one moment when the family sits together and the year turns.
But first: the twenty-third. Little New Year. The day you send the Kitchen God up to heaven to report on your family's behavior over the past twelve months. You offer him sweets, sticky things, to glue his mouth shut or sweeten his words. You burn his paper image and watch the smoke rise.
Most people don't believe in the Kitchen God anymore. But they still clean the house. They still make food. They still prepare.
Zhou Huizhen woke at four in the morning and lay in bed listening for sounds from the next room.
This is a Chinese thing: the listening. The way mothers train themselves to hear everything—a child's cry in the night, a door opening, the first stirrings of someone else's day. Even when the children are grown, even when they have children of their own, the listening never stops.
Her son and daughter-in-law's door was closed. No sound. She lay there a while longer. Outside, it was still dark. The kitchen faucet dripped—drip, drip, drip. She counted to one hundred and twenty-seven, then got up anyway.
This is also a Chinese thing: the getting up anyway. The body may ache, the night may be dark, the day may hold nothing but more of the same—but you get up. There is work to do. There is always work to do.
When her feet hit the floor, her knee gave a sharp stab. She gripped the bedframe for a few seconds, waiting for the pain to pass. On the nightstand was a photograph. Her husband had been gone three years now, and a thin layer of dust had settled around the frame's edges. She wiped it with her sleeve, not daring to look too long.
Not daring to look too long. This is Chinese too. The way grief is carried not in grand gestures but in small avoidances. In the photograph you don't look at. In the place at the table you don't set. In the name you don't say.
The kitchen light clicked on. Cockroaches scurried into the cracks around the stove. She pretended not to notice.
In Chinese homes, this is a kind of politeness. You don't acknowledge what you cannot fix. You don't speak of what shames you. The cockroaches are there because the building is old, because the pipes are shared, because this is how things are. You learn to live alongside.
She pulled the black iron mixing bowl from under the sink—a chip in the bottom, exposing rust. This bowl was something her husband had brought back from the factory in 1986. That year they'd been allocated this apartment, moving out of the communal building into this place, living here for over thirty years now.
The bowl is older than her children's marriages. Older than her husband's death. It has outlasted them both. In Chinese families, things outlast. Objects carry memory. You keep the bowl with the chip in it because the chip is part of the story.
The dough had been set to rise last night. Now it had swelled to fill the bowl, rounding the plastic wrap into a tight dome. She peeled the wrap off. A sour smell rose up—just right. She weighed a piece in her hand, slammed it onto the board, and began to knead.
Kneading dough is a meditation. Push, fold, turn. Push, fold, turn. The body remembers what the mind forgets. Her mother taught her, standing on a stool to reach the table. She taught her daughter, who learned but never practices. Who has time? Who has time for dough that takes all night to rise?
Outside, the sound of a street sweeper—swish, swish, swish, stroke by stroke, as if sweeping the sky clean.
In China, someone is always sweeping. The old women with bamboo brooms, the street cleaners before dawn, the grandmothers in their apartments sweeping dust out the door. You sweep away the old to make room for the new. You sweep even when nothing is dirty. The sweeping is the point.
二
At seven-fifteen, people upstairs began to stir. Water pipes rattled. She picked the steamed buns out one by one and arranged them on bamboo trays to cool. White steam rushed up into her face. Something trickled from the corner of her eye. She wiped it with the back of her hand. Not tears. Steam.
In Chinese families, you never know if it's tears or steam. You never ask. You pretend not to see. This is how love works: in the not-asking, the not-saying, the space you give each other to have feelings without having to name them.
"Ma."
Her daughter-in-law stood at the kitchen door, hair loose, wearing a down jacket over her pajamas, cartoon rabbits on the slippers.
Chinese daughter-in-laws live in a particular space. Not quite daughter, not quite stranger. Expected to be family, but always aware they came from somewhere else. The cartoon rabbits on her slippers—this is a young woman, still soft, still playful. But marriage hardens people. Motherhood hardens people. Living with your husband's mother hardens people.
"Up already? Buns in the pot, still hot."
"Weiming's not up yet." The daughter-in-law didn't look toward the pot. She stood at the door. "Ma. I need to tell you something."
The way she stood at the door, not entering—this told Zhou Huizhen everything. Bad news stands at thresholds. Good news comes all the way in.
Zhou Huizhen's hands paused, then turned another bun.
"Go on."
"This New Year's, we were thinking of going back to my mother's place."
In Chinese marriages, this is the great negotiation. Whose family gets the holiday? Whose ancestors get honored? Whose mother eats alone? The weight of tradition says the wife goes to the husband's family. But tradition is heavy, and young women are tired of carrying it.
Zhou Huizhen said nothing.
"Three years since we've been back. My mother's health hasn't been good this year..." The daughter-in-law's voice dropped lower and lower, the last words swallowed.
This is another Chinese thing: the unfinished sentence. The words you don't say are more important than the words you do. "My mother's health hasn't been good" means "I am afraid she will die and I will not have seen her." But you cannot say that. It would be too much. So you say half and hope the other half is heard.
"What does Weiming say?"
"He says whatever I want."
Zhou Huizhen dropped the cloth onto the counter, turned around. Her face showed nothing. "Fine. Then go."
In Chinese families, "fine" never means fine. It means: I am hurt but will not say so. It means: I will bear this as I have borne everything. It means: you are my child and I love you and I will let you go because that is what mothers do.
The daughter-in-law blinked, as if surprised by how easily it went.
"I'll book the tickets then?"
"Book them."
The daughter-in-law turned and left. Slippers slapped against the floor—smack, smack, smack. Zhou Huizhen stood there a moment longer. She'd forgotten to turn off the stove. The pot rattled, bubbles rising, water nearly boiled dry.
This is what grief does: makes you forget the stove. Makes you stand in your own kitchen watching water boil away and not moving to stop it.
三
Zhou Weiming didn't get up until noon.
In China, this is unacceptable. The old generation rises with the sun. The young generation does not. This is one of the many small wars fought in Chinese homes: the war of sleeping in, of phones at the table, of meals eaten alone at different times.
Unwashed, cigarette dangling, he scrolled through his phone on the sofa. Zhou Huizhen came from the kitchen carrying a bowl of noodles and set it on the coffee table.
"Eat."
Chinese mothers feed. It is what they do. It is how they say "I love you" when those words feel impossible. A bowl of noodles, a piece of fruit, a glass of hot water—these are the vocabulary of Chinese maternal love.
Weiming glanced at it. Didn't move. Leftovers from last night. Eggplant and minced pork sauce, the eggplant stewed soft and oily.
"Ma. I need to tell you something."
"Your wife told me. Going back to her folks for New Year's."
Weiming stubbed out his cigarette and sat up straight.
"You agreed?"
"What else could I do?"
This is the question Chinese mothers ask themselves constantly. What else could I do? My child needs something. My child's happiness requires something of me. What else could I do but give it?
Weiming opened his mouth, then closed it. Zhou Huizhen looked at him, looked at his face—so like his father. Especially the jaw, square and stubborn.
In China, we say a son carries his father's face. We mean it literally. The bones pass down, the shape of the eyes, the way the mouth moves. The dead live on in the living. You cannot escape your ancestors. They are written in your features.
"When your father was alive, every New Year's Eve we went back to your grandmother's. After she passed, your father still talked about it—one year, heavy snow, your grandmother stood at the mouth of the alley waiting for him, waited over an hour, snow all over her..."
This is a Chinese memory: the parent waiting. The mother at the alley mouth, the father at the train station, the grandmother at the door. We are always waiting for each other. We are always arriving late, snow on our shoulders, finding the ones who love us still standing there.
"Ma. I know."
"No. You don't know." Zhou Huizhen untied her apron and tossed it over the back of the sofa. "Your father's been gone three years. How many times have you been back to sweep his grave?"
In China, you sweep the graves before New Year's. You clean away the weeds, you burn paper money, you tell your ancestors the news. This is how the dead stay part of the family. This is how they know they are not forgotten.
Weiming said nothing. His phone screen lit and dimmed, lit and dimmed. Messages piled up. He didn't look at any of them.
"I'll go," he said.
"Go where?"
"Talk to my wife. Tell her we're not going. Staying here this year."
Zhou Huizhen didn't answer. She turned and went into the kitchen. The faucet ran again, splashing, as if trying to wash something away.
This is what Chinese mothers do: they walk away so their children cannot see them cry.
四
By three in the afternoon, the fight had started.
Zhou Huizhen was on the balcony gathering laundry. Through the glass she could hear it—the woman's voice sharp, the man's muffled and occasional. She pretended not to hear, took down each piece, folded it, made piles. Her son's socks had holes in both heels. She looked at them a long moment, then slipped them into her own pocket. She'd darn them later.
This is Chinese mothering: even in the middle of a family crisis, you notice the holes in socks. You plan to fix them. The fixing is a kind of prayer.
The fighting stopped. A door slammed. Her daughter-in-law came out carrying a suitcase. At the living room entrance she paused. Zhou Huizhen stayed on the balcony, watching through the glass. The younger woman stood there a moment, then walked out.
The pause at the doorway—this is Chinese too. The moment of waiting to be stopped. The hope that someone will call you back, will say "don't go," will make it possible to stay without losing face.
No one called.
The security door banged shut. The stairwell light clicked on, then off.
Weiming came out of the bedroom, hair a mess, eyes red. He walked to the balcony door and stood there. Said nothing.
"Gone?" Zhou Huizhen asked.
"Gone."
"Go after her."
Weiming didn't move. Zhou Huizhen thrust the folded laundry into his arms. "Go after her."
"Ma—"
"Go!"
Chinese mothers do not ask twice. They command. Because they have learned that hesitation loses everything. Because they have spent their lives waiting and now they are done.
Weiming tossed the laundry onto the sofa and ran out. Zhou Huizhen stood on the balcony looking down. At the building entrance, her daughter-in-law stood there. Her son ran up. They spoke, she couldn't hear what. The daughter-in-law dropped the suitcase, squatted down, and cried.
In China, we cry in public. On the street, at the bus stop, outside the building where everyone can see. There is no privacy for grief. Your neighbors know your marriage, your money troubles, your children's exam scores. They see you squatting on the sidewalk, sobbing, and they walk past without looking. This is also a kind of privacy: the pretense of not seeing.
Zhou Huizhen pulled the curtain closed.
五
Seven in the evening. They came back together.
Zhou Huizhen was in the kitchen frying meatballs. The exhaust fan roared, oil sizzled, the whole apartment smelled of meat. The daughter-in-law stood at the kitchen door, eyes still red. Her lips moved, but no sound came.
In China, we have a saying: 出口气—"let out the breath." After a fight, after crying, after the storm passes, you let out the breath and you go back to the kitchen. You go back to the stove. You go back to the meatballs.
Zhou Huizhen glanced back at her. "In the cupboard. Get two plates."
This is forgiveness. Not "I'm sorry" or "I forgive you." Just: get two plates. Sit down. Eat with us. You are still family.
The daughter-in-law blinked, then went.
Three people ate dinner. No one spoke. The TV was on, a special program counting down to Spring Festival. The hosts chattered and laughed, making the silence in the room even deeper.
Chinese dinners can be loud or silent. Both are forms of communication. The loud ones mean everything is fine, we are a happy family, listen to us laugh. The silent ones mean: we are processing. We are digesting more than food.
"Ma." The daughter-in-law put down her chopsticks. "What if we go back the day after New Year's? The tickets for then."
In China, compromise looks like this. Not a full surrender, but a movement. Not all, but some. The daughter-in-law gives up the holiday itself. She keeps the second day. Both women have given something. Both women have kept something.
Zhou Huizhen picked up a bite of vegetable, chewed it slowly.
"Fine."
The daughter-in-law looked at Weiming. Weiming stared at his bowl, eating as if he hadn't heard.
"Weiming will go with you," Zhou Huizhen said. "I'll be fine alone here."
This is what Chinese mothers say. "I'll be fine." They are never fine. But they say it anyway, because saying otherwise would burden their children, and the whole point of being a mother is to carry burdens so your children don't have to.
"No, we couldn't—"
"Why not? I've been alone three years now. A few more days won't matter."
The daughter-in-law said nothing. The TV started a sketch comedy. Laughter from the studio audience, wave after wave. None of the three laughed.
六
Eleven at night. Zhou Huizhen lay down but couldn't sleep.
In China, we say "睡不着"—"sleep not arriving." Sleep is a visitor who comes and goes. For old people, for worried people, for mothers whose children are fighting, sleep does not arrive.
Sounds from the next room. Bedsprings creaked a few times, then quiet. She turned toward the wall. A water stain on the wall, years old now, yellowed, shaped like a crouching cat. Her husband had said more than once they should get it fixed. Never did. Now he was gone, and the stain still crouched there.
Chinese apartments have these stains. The plumbing is old, the buildings are old, the repairs never quite happen. You learn to live with the cat-shaped stain on the wall. You learn to see it as company.
Her phone buzzed. She reached for it. Her daughter.
"Ma. You asleep?"
"Not yet."
"Ge called me." Noise in the background, like she was outside. "He said saozi wants to go back to her folks for New Year's. You agreed?"
"Mm."
"So you'll be alone?"
"So what if I am? Your mother's not senile yet."
This is how Chinese mothers talk to their daughters: with a kind of rough love. The teasing that covers deeper feeling. The joke that isn't quite a joke.
Her daughter laughed, then stopped.
"Ma. I need to tell you something."
"Tell me."
"This year I might not make it back either. The kid's father's side—his grandma just got out of the hospital, wants us all together for the holiday..."
In China, this is called "being pulled in two directions." The daughter's duty to her own mother, her duty to her husband's mother. There is no way to satisfy both. Someone always loses.
Zhou Huizhen said nothing.
"Ma?"
"I'm listening."
"Don't be mad. I'll definitely come see you the second or third day."
"I'm not mad." Zhou Huizhen said. "You're all busy. It's fine."
She hung up and put the phone back on the nightstand, next to her husband's photo. The man in the picture wore his blue Mao jacket, smiling, showing two missing teeth. When that picture was taken, her daughter wasn't married yet, her son hadn't found a wife. The four of them crammed into this two-bedroom apartment, making dumplings by the trayful for New Year's.
Chinese families shrink. This is a fact. The children leave, marry, have their own children, their own obligations. The parents become the ones who are left. The apartment that once held four now holds one. The dumplings that once filled three trays now fill half a plate.
She turned over and switched off the light.
In the darkness, sounds again from the next room. Murmurs. She pulled the blanket up over her ears.
Part Two
七
The twenty-eighth of the month. Her son and daughter-in-law left.
Before going, the daughter-in-law insisted on filling the refrigerator. Spare ribs, beltfish, chicken legs—packed them in one by one. Zhou Huizhen stood by, wanting to say that overstuffing the fridge wasted electricity, but the words got stuck.
This is a Chinese goodbye ritual: filling the refrigerator. If you cannot be there, at least your food will be. If you cannot care for her, at least the chicken legs will. It is inadequate, and everyone knows it, but you do it anyway.
"Ma. Call if anything happens." The daughter-in-law wiped her hands and untied her apron.
"What could happen?"
This is what old people say. What could happen? They know everything could happen. A fall, a stroke, a heart attack in the night. But they say "what could happen" to make their children feel better. To make themselves feel better. To pretend that being alone at seventy-three is fine.
Weiming stood at the door with the suitcase. He glanced at his mother. Zhou Huizhen waved. "Go, go. You'll miss your train."
The door closed. Footsteps in the stairwell, fading. The elevator dinged. Then nothing.
Zhou Huizhen stood there a long time. Heard the neighbor's lock click. Quickly turned and went back inside.
In China, you do not let the neighbors see you standing at your door like a fool, staring at nothing. You go inside. You close the door. You have your feelings in private.
In the afternoon she went to the supermarket. Nothing she really needed—just wanted to walk around. Everywhere in the store, red lanterns hung, blasting that Happy New Year song. Crowds, carts bumping carts. She pushed an empty cart through the aisles, stopping, looking, touching this and that. In the end, she bought only a bag of salt.
In China, salt is the most basic thing. You always have salt. You never run out of salt. Buying salt means you are preparing to cook, which means you are preparing to live, which means you are not giving up.
At checkout, a dozen people ahead. She waited patiently. Up front, a young couple hugged and cuddled. The woman whined about not wanting to go back to her in-laws'. The man coaxed her, said they'd only stay two days. Zhou Huizhen looked down, pretended to study the gum display by the register.
The young woman's whine—this is new in China. The generation that says what they want. The generation that refuses to be silent. Zhou Huizhen does not know whether to admire them or worry for them. Marriage is hard enough without saying everything you feel.
Home by dark. She put the salt in the kitchen cabinet, next to the unopened bag already there. Three bags of salt in the cabinet now. She'd forgotten.
Dinner was simple: noodles, a couple greens, one egg fried. She sat on the sofa eating from the bowl, the TV on. She didn't really watch. Halfway through, she remembered—today was the twenty-eighth. Other years, this was when she'd start steaming buns. Three full batches, enough to last until the fifteenth.
This year she'd made one batch. Her son and daughter-in-law barely touched them. The rest sat frozen in the fridge.
八
New Year's Eve.
Zhou Huizhen woke earlier than usual. Couldn't sleep. Occasional firecrackers outside—some kid couldn't wait, setting them off early. She got up and cleaned. Mopped the floor, straightened the sofa cover, tidied the coffee table. Nothing really needed doing. Just her. Not much to mess up.
In China, cleaning on New Year's Eve is supposed to sweep away bad luck. But what if the bad luck is already inside you? What if it's not in the corners but in your bones?
Around ten, her daughter video-called.
"Ma! Happy New Year!" Three faces crammed into the screen: daughter, son-in-law, granddaughter. The little girl had candy in her mouth, called out "Grandma" through the sugar.
Video calls are how Chinese families stay connected now. The grandchildren grow up on screens. The grandparents watch from far away. It is not the same as being there, but it is something. It is better than nothing.
"Happy New Year, happy New Year." Zhou Huizhen smiled, holding the phone farther away to fit them all in.
"Ma, what are you eating?"
"Haven't made anything yet. No rush."
"Make something good! Don't just throw something together."
"I won't."
After hanging up, she held the phone a moment, then sent Weiming a text: You arrive?
Nearly an hour later, he replied: Yeah. It's fine.
"It's fine." This is what Chinese people say when nothing is fine. When the fighting continues, when the in-laws are difficult, when you miss your mother and cannot say so. It's fine. Everything is fine.
Afternoon nap. Woke near dark. Firecrackers outside were thicker now, closer and farther, all going off. She got up, washed her face, looked in the mirror, smoothed her hair back behind her ears.
New Year's dinner—the same as lunch. She reheated the leftovers, set them on the coffee table, ate while watching the Spring Festival Gala. The hosts' voices bright and loud, audience laughter rolling in waves. She laughed along a few times. Afterwards, couldn't remember what at.
The Spring Festival Gala is required viewing in China. Everyone watches it, or at least has it on in the background. The songs, the skits, the dancers in bright costumes—it is the sound of the nation celebrating together. Even if you are alone, you are alone with three hundred million other people watching the same show.
After ten, her son called.
"Ma. You eaten?"
"Mm."
"Watching the Gala?"
"Watching."
"Things are fine here at my wife's place. Made lots of food..."
A voice in the background—her daughter-in-law, words unclear. Zhou Huizhen waited. Her son said a few more things, asked how she was feeling, if the heating was working. She answered: all fine.
After hanging up, she held the phone until her palm sweated.
At midnight, the firecrackers outside exploded. A roar, the sky lit up. She stood at the window a long time, watching. Distant fireworks rose, burst open, red and green, falling and rising again.
In China, fireworks are to scare away evil spirits. The louder, the better. But the evil spirits are not outside. They are inside. They are the loneliness, the grief, the fear of another year alone. Fireworks cannot scare those away.
She pushed the window open a crack. Cold air rushed in, smelling of gunpowder. She stood there, watching the lights, one by one exploding, one by one dying out.
九
Morning of the first day. Firecrackers woke her. She lay in bed listening, not wanting to get up. Lay a while longer, then got up anyway.
In the bathroom, she looked in the mirror. Dark circles under her eyes. Didn't sleep well. She splashed cold water on her face. Still the same.
Around noon, her daughter's family arrived. The door opened, her granddaughter rushed in, wrapping her arms around her legs, calling "Grandma." Her daughter carried bags and bags. Her son-in-law followed, looking for work to do as soon as he stepped inside—was the faucet still dripping, did any bulbs need changing.
This is what sons-in-law do in China: they find work. They fix things. They prove their usefulness because usefulness is how men show love.
Zhou Huizhen said all fine, nothing needed changing.
Lunch, the table was full. Finally some noise. Her granddaughter wanted fish, her daughter picked out the bones. Her son-in-law poured Zhou Huizhen a drink—said he was driving so no alcohol, but he'd toast her with tea.
Zhou Huizhen held up her cup and smiled.
After eating, her daughter helped clean up. In the kitchen washing dishes, she asked, "Ma, you were alone yesterday?"
"So what if I was?"
"And my ge?"
"Back with his wife's folks."
Her daughter went quiet. Scoured the bowls noisily.
"Don't blame your brother," Zhou Huizhen said. "His wife is good. Thoughtful."
This is what Chinese mothers do: they defend the absent child to the present one. They keep the peace. They prevent sibling resentment. Even when they are hurt themselves, they smooth things over for others.
"I don't blame." Her daughter put bowls in the sanitizer. "I just think..."
"Think what?"
Her daughter shook her head. Didn't say.
In the afternoon they left. Her granddaughter kissed her, said, "Grandma, I'll come see you again next week." Zhou Huizhen stood at the door watching the elevator close, numbers ticking down.
Quiet again.
She went back to the kitchen and looked at the things her daughter brought: a carton of milk, a box of pastries, a red sweater. She picked it up, looked at it, held it against herself, then folded it back into the bag.
Red is for luck. Red is for happiness. Red is for New Year's. The sweater will hang in the closet, unworn, because red is for young people. Old people wear dark colors. Old people disappear.
Outside, kids set off firecrackers—pop pop pop, then quiet. She stood at the window. In the empty lot below, children ran around with sparklers, drawing circles, drawing bright circles in the air.
十
The fifth day. Her son came back.
Zhou Huizhen was airing quilts on the balcony. Heard the door, looked out. Her son stood in the living room, suitcase in hand, stubbled, dark under his eyes too.
"Back?"
"Yeah."
"Your wife?"
"Still at her folks'. I came back first."
Zhou Huizhen came in from the balcony, dusted off her hands. Her son stood there, not moving, looking at her.
"Ma."
"What?"
"I want a divorce."
In China, divorce is still shameful. Not as shameful as it once was, but shameful enough. The failure of a marriage is the failure of the family. And the failure of the family is the failure of the mother, who raised the son, who chose the daughter-in-law, who should have made it work.
Zhou Huizhen paused. Said nothing.
"Can't go on." Her son dropped the suitcase. "Fighting every day. From the first day to today. Fighting till my head hurts."
Zhou Huizhen still said nothing. Walked to the sofa and sat down, patted the spot beside her.
Her son came over and sat down, head down, hands twisting together.
"Her mother's not well. She wants to stay until after the fifteenth. I said work starts the eighth. She said take more leave. I said leave's hard to get. She started fighting, said I don't take her family seriously..."
"That's it?"
Her son looked up at her.
"That's it?" Zhou Huizhen said again. "You think marriage is a game? Divorce just like that?"
"No, Ma, you don't understand—"
"I don't understand?" Zhou Huizhen cut him off. "I was with your father thirty-seven years. What don't I understand?"
This is the authority of the Chinese mother: she has endured. She has survived. She has stayed. Her suffering gives her the right to speak.
Her son said nothing.
"Your father's temper. You know it. When he was young, he drank. When he drank, he threw things. The next day he'd squat there picking everything up, cursing himself while he did it. Did I fight with him? Yes. Did I think about leaving? Yes. Then your grandmother got sick. Bedridden three years. Bedpans, washing—I did it all alone. Your father came home from work and helped, and I could rest a little. Those three years, him and me, not one fight."
This is the Chinese philosophy of marriage: you endure. You wait. You hope things will get better. And sometimes, if you wait long enough, they do.
Her son listened, head down.
"You think marriage is what? You're good to me, I'm good to you? Yes, that's part. But not all. It's when you're hurting, he's there. When he's hurting, you're there. It's when you want noodles and he wants rice, you each give a little, today noodles, tomorrow rice. It's when your mother's sick, he brings the medicine. When his mother's in the hospital, you bring the meals."
This is the Chinese definition of love: not a feeling but a series of actions. Not romance but duty. Not passion but presence.
Zhou Huizhen paused.
"Your wife. I think she's good. For living day to day. She's good."
Her son looked up, eyes red.
"Ma—"
"Go back." Zhou Huizhen said. "Go get her."
"But—"
"No buts. Married people fight. Quarrel by the bed, make up by the bed. Go."
Her son stood up. Stood there a moment. Walked toward the door. At the entrance he turned to look at her.
Zhou Huizhen waved. "Go, go. Don't dawdle."
The door closed. Zhou Huizhen sat on the sofa a long time. Outside, pigeons flew past, wings beating.
十一
That night her son called. Said he'd arrived. Said they'd come back tomorrow. Said they were fine.
Zhou Huizhen murmured agreement. Said nothing else.
After hanging up, she went to make dinner. Frozen buns still in the fridge. She put them on to steam. Pork too—sliced some, stewed with cabbage. Alone in the kitchen, the exhaust fan roaring, spatula scraping the pan, clanging.
While eating, she remembered something. Her son forgot to ask if she'd swept his father's grave. She went before New Year's. Snow still on the ground, a thin layer on the headstone. She wiped it with her sleeve, hands frozen red.
In China, sweeping the grave is the child's duty. The son should do it. The son should remember. But the son is busy with his own life, his own marriage, his own fights. The mother does it instead. The mother always does it instead.
She put down her chopsticks, stood up, rummaged through the cabinet. Found her husband's photo. Still that one, in the Mao jacket, smiling, showing the missing teeth.
"That son of yours," she said. "Just like you. Stubborn."
The man in the photo said nothing. Just smiled.
She put it back. Returned to the table, finished the cold, hard food. Chewed slowly, a long time.
十二
The fifteenth day. Her son and daughter-in-law came back.
The door opened and her daughter-in-law called out "Ma," carrying things, face smiling. Zhou Huizhen took them, saying "you shouldn't have," eyes slipping to the younger woman's middle—had she gained weight, or something else? A little thicker through the waist.
Chinese mothers notice everything. They notice the weight gain, the tired eyes, the way you hold your hand to your back. They notice before you notice yourself.
At lunch she made extra dishes, filled the table. Her daughter-in-law praised her cooking, said she'd missed it. Zhou Huizhen served her with chopsticks, told her to eat plenty.
After eating, her daughter-in-law helped clean up. Washing dishes in the kitchen, Zhou Huizhen asked.
"Are you?"
Her daughter-in-law blinked, then blushed.
"How did you know?"
"Been around." Zhou Huizhen smiled. "How many months?"
"Two."
"Weiming know?"
"Not yet. Waiting till after three months..."
In China, you wait until three months to announce a pregnancy. The first trimester is uncertain. You don't want to jinx it. You don't want to have to un-tell people.
Zhou Huizhen nodded. Put down the dish she was holding. Looked at her daughter-in-law.
"Live well then."
This is a blessing. This is a command. This is a hope. All in three words.
The younger woman lowered her head. Mmmed.
That evening, her son took his wife back to rest. Zhou Huizhen sat alone in the living room. TV on. Didn't watch. Sat a while, then stood up, walked to the balcony.
Outside, fireworks bloomed, one after another. She watched a long time, then noticed the moon hanging above the corner of the building—full and round.
In China, the fifteenth day is when the moon is fullest. The first full moon of the new year. Lantern Festival. The end of the holiday season. Tomorrow, life returns to normal. Tomorrow, the children go back to their lives. Tonight, the moon watches over everyone.
She suddenly remembered something her husband once said. Just after they married, poor as could be. No money for meat at New Year's, only vegetarian dumplings. As they wrapped them, he said: when we have money, we'll eat meat every meal. She asked: what if you get tired of meat? He thought a moment, said: then we'll stop, go back to vegetables.
She'd laughed at him then. Now, tears came.
十三
That night she dreamed.
In the dream, her husband was still alive, wearing that Mao jacket, standing at the kitchen door watching her cook. She turned to him, asked: hungry? He said: no. She said: then why are you standing there? He smiled. Didn't answer.
In Chinese dreams, the dead visit. They stand in doorways, they smile, they don't speak. They come to let you know they are okay. They come to let you know you will be okay too.
She woke and lay still, staring at the ceiling.
Outside, light began to seep in. The breakfast stalls set up below, three-wheeled carts creaking, the smell of frying dough drifting up through the window cracks.
She turned over. Saw the photograph on the nightstand. The man in the picture still smiled, still showed his two missing teeth.
She smiled too.
Time to get up. Needed to buy groceries today. Her son and daughter-in-law home, she should make good food. And buy brown sugar—her daughter-in-law pregnant, should drink brown sugar water.
In China, brown sugar water is for new mothers. For women who have given birth, who have lost blood, who need warmth. The old women know these things. The young women learn.
She pushed herself up from the bed. Her knee stabbed again. She didn't hold it this time. Stood a few seconds, then walked forward.
In the kitchen, the faucet dripped. She twisted it. It stopped. Opened the cabinet, took out the new bag of salt, tore it open, poured it into the salt jar.
The jar was full.
She stood there, looking at that salt jar, for a long time.
Outside, pigeon whistles sounded, coming closer, then fading, scattering.