The journey home was long. Although two fellow returning sent-down youths helped along the way, it was still an arduous trip. The two young children, missing their father and traveling far for the first time, struggled with the bumpy ride—Duoduo even threw up halfway through, and Gu Shunhua developed blisters in her mouth from the constant jolting.
From Wuyuan County to Baotou, then all the way to the capital—it was nearly a thousand kilometers. The stuffy green train carriage was filled with the stifling odor of prolonged crowding.
Thankfully, by noon, they finally arrived in the capital.
The rumbling screech of wheels against the tracks came to a halt. The rocking ceased, and numb minds stirred with a flicker of hope. Stiff bodies could finally stretch again.
The two helpful educated youths had gotten off earlier at Zhangjiakou. Gu Shunhua was now on her own, but she had made it—she was in the capital now, and nothing else mattered.
She woke the two children sleeping in her arms. Rubbing their eyes, they looked up groggily.
“We’ve arrived in the capital! We’re here!” she said, smiling.
The crowd had already started to disembark. Shunhua didn’t rush—traveling with children and luggage, she let the others go first before slowly pulling the suitcase, holding one child’s hand and guiding the other by her side.
As they stepped off the train, a cold wind swept across the platform. It jolted her awake. The children widened their eyes in awe—the capital’s train station was nothing like Wuyuan’s. It was bigger, more imposing, more grand.
Listening to the loudspeaker announcements, Gu Shunhua dragged the suitcase and led the children until they finally exited the station.
Outside, the hustle and bustle of the capital hit them like a wave. The children were dazzled. They were used to the vast emptiness and desolation beneath the Yin Mountains—just visiting the supply station at the foot of the hill had been a big event. Now, thrown into the vibrancy of the capital, their eyes couldn’t take in everything fast enough.
Gu Shunhua was completely exhausted. She had gone from Inner Mongolia to the capital, then back again, and once more returned—all without a proper break. Her body was beyond spent, even numb. Still, she summoned her strength and began pointing things out to the children: this was the capital train station, with its towering central building flanked by two arrow towers. On one tower were bold characters reading “Long live great China,” and on the other, “Long live our great leader Chairman Mao.”
Just then, a flatbed rickshaw pulled up beside them, the driver calling out. These tricycle carts lingered around the station for hire, helping carry luggage. Not wanting her children to suffer any further, Shunhua waved him over. The driver loaded up the suitcase, and she gathered the two children into her arms and sat them on the cart.
The distance from the station to Qianmen Street was a little over three kilometers, but they would pass through the capital’s most bustling areas—past Chongwen Gate and along East Qianmen Street, until the arrow towers north of Dashilan came into view.
Shunhua pointed things out to the children: this was the arrow tower, Zhengyangmen, once the southern main gate of the imperial city. Back in the Qing dynasty, the emperors would pass through here.
The children nodded repeatedly, not quite understanding but full of curiosity, asking question after question.
The cart turned into Dashilan. Shops lined the street, and crowds bustled endlessly. When they reached the entrance of Dali Hutong, Shunhua told the driver to stop, paid him, and led the children into the alley.
They walked west through the alley until a bend led them into a slanted hutong—the very place where Gu Shunhua had grown up.
Inside the hutong were many shared courtyard homes. Each courtyard housed at least a dozen families, sometimes several dozen. She approached an old gate—its red paint flaking—flanked by carved stone pillars. Above the frame were engraved characters: “A kind family lasts for generations; scholarship and virtue carry on the line.”
“This is home,” she said.
The children were visibly excited, more curious than anything else.
They followed Shunhua into a narrow corridor that twisted and turned. Coal briquettes, cabbages covered with straw mats, and other miscellaneous items lined the passage. At the end, they emerged into a palm-sized courtyard.
In the capital, the east was elite, the west wealthy, and the south full of these crowded courtyard homes.1 Before Liberation, the south side had housed the poor; places like Tianqiao were full of street performers and vendors. After Liberation, under public-private partnership reforms, state-owned housing was allotted to workers—and this included these courtyard homes.
The homes belonged to the municipal housing bureau. Families had the right to live there, typically allotted a single room of just over ten square meters. Over time, as families married and grew, space became scarce. People began building lean-tos and shacks to expand, gradually encroaching on the courtyard. Eventually, in some yards, you could no longer see any courtyard at all—only winding alleys like a maze.
To the children, this was astonishing. Back at the mine, space was vast and empty—you could see to the horizon. Here, people were crammed into every nook, the alleys full of coal and household goods, barely any room to step.
Leading the children inside, Shunhua spotted an old woman hanging laundry. She wore a blue jacket with a cross-collar front, loose trousers, and her hair was tied in a low bun with a red wooden hairpin tucked into a net.
At her heels lay a snow-white cat with bright, intelligent eyes and a swishing tail.
“Granny Tong?” Shunhua called.
The old woman turned and, seeing her clearly, broke into a loving smile. “Shunhua! You’re finally back. Your parents have been talking about you non-stop. Yongzi said he saw you and even brought us vegetables—then poof! You vanished. We were wondering what happened!”
Then she noticed the two children. Delighted, she exclaimed, “Look at these little ones—so adorable! Come here, let Grandma take a look.”
The cat meowed at the children.
Manman stood obediently, trying to smile, wanting to say “Grandma” as Shunhua had taught him, but he was too cold—his lips trembled, and he couldn’t quite get the word out. Duoduo, her cheeks flushed and nose dripping, stared wide-eyed at the cat. She had never seen one before—there were no cats at the coal mine.
Shunhua quickly introduced them. Granny Tong was smitten and hugged one, then patted the other. It was noon, and workers living nearby were home for lunch. Neighbors peeked out their windows, and when they saw it was Shunhua, they came out to greet her. Her parents soon arrived too.
Her mother, Chen Cuiyue, burst into tears and hurried over. “You’re finally home!”
Her father, Gu Quanfu, said repeatedly, “It’s cold outside. Hurry in, hurry in!”
And it truly was—their breath came out in visible white puffs.
Shunhua handed over the suitcase, told the children to greet their grandparents. Duoduo timidly whispered “Grandma, Grandpa,” and Manman followed, his little voice stiff from the cold.
Chen Cuiyue scooped Duoduo into her arms, took Manman by the hand, and welcomed them in.
The neighbors gathered around, bustling into the Gu family home. They chatted over one another, asked about the journey, praised how good-looking the children were—saying they looked just like Shunhua when she was little.
Chen Cuiyue brought out biscuits and sponge cake, poured steaming wheat milk into white porcelain bowls, and handed them over. “Warm yourselves up first.”
Exhausted and starved, Shunhua took the food gratefully. She fed the children pieces of sponge cake, nibbled on a biscuit herself, then sipped the hot, sweet wheat milk, feeding the rest to the children with the help of Granny Tong and a spoon.
Just then, a woman said, “Didn’t you say you were coming back alone? Why bring the kids?”
The room fell silent. Everyone turned to look.
Shunhua took a sip and looked up—it was Qiao Xiuya.
Qiao’s son, Su Jianping, was three years older than Shunhua. They’d grown up together. Among the dozen families in the yard, most struggled to get by—except Qiao’s. Her husband was a driver, and she worked at a cooperative store. Drivers and store clerks were among the Eight Esteemed Workers—considered highly respectable jobs that others looked up to.
So Qiao Xiuya carried status in the courtyard.
Shunhua remembered her well. In the book, Qiao Xiuya had even tried to set her up with someone—a department head in the local food supply office. He was in his thirties, had pockmarked skin, and a former wife who had run off after frequent fights and domestic abuse.
Hearing Qiao’s comment, Shunhua simply smiled. “Children belong with their mother. What kind of person would abandon them?”
Qiao’s smile was thin and cold. “Then you can forget about registering your household in the capital.”
Her tone was final. The others looked at Shunhua curiously, while Chen Cuiyue grew nervous, wringing her apron. “Yes, how will you get household registration with children?”
Qiao Xiuya pressed on, smug. “I told your mother already—get divorced, and we’ll find you someone good. Like that district food bureau chief. A position like that means you’ll never lack anything. But now? Divorced with two kids, no registration, and who’ll take you?”
Shunhua smiled calmly. “A man like that? I wouldn’t dare. Divorced with two kids? I’m not worthy. But your daughter Yinghong—that’d be a perfect match.”
She was referring to Su Yinghong, Qiao’s daughter, two years younger than Shunhua.
Qiao’s face darkened. This girl—what kind of talk is that? Where’s the respect for her elders? Down in the countryside a few years and she’s learned to talk back?
Just as Qiao Xiuya was about to lash out, footsteps sounded from outside, the door opened, a gust of cold air rushed in, and someone called out cheerfully, “What’s all the commotion? It’s so lively today. Who’s come to visit—”
The moment she saw Gu Shunhua, she fell silent.
Shunhua slowly spooned the warm malted milk into Duoduo’s small mouth and gently wiped the corners of her lips before finally lifting her head.
The newcomer was Chen Lu.
Truth be told, their relationship had always been strained.
Shunhua’s maternal grandmother had two daughters and one son. The eldest daughter married a textile worker in a wool factory on the outskirts—too far to stay close. The second daughter was Shunhua’s mother, Chen Cuiyue. The youngest was Shunhua’s uncle, Chen Yaotang—Chen Lu’s father.
Chen Yaotang had always been a loafer. People called him “Master Chen” growing up, but that “Master” came with a heavy dose of mockery and disdain—you could hear it in the way they bit down hard on the word.
Even after getting married, this “Master” remained idle, spending the little money he earned on pipe tobacco. Over the years, he relied heavily on his two elder sisters for support.
Chen Cuiyue worked as a seamstress in a garment factory. Shunhua still remembered that one year, when her mother was recognized as an exemplary woman worker and awarded milk vouchers—enough to subscribe to two bottles a day.
That was in the difficult 1960s. Milk vouchers were rare and precious, especially in courtyard homes like theirs. Only the very young were fortunate enough to have milk delivered.
When Gu Shunhua heard her family was finally getting milk, she was over the moon—skipping around the hutong telling all her little friends she’d finally get to drink milk, too. But when the vouchers came, one bottle went to her little brother Yuehua. The other? Straight to Chen Lu.
Later, she saw Chen Lu—her little braids bouncing—holding the voucher with a proud smile, on her way to collect the milk. That voucher, with its big red stamp, made Shunhua’s tears fall on the spot.
Her mother had simply said, “Chen Lu is still little, and she’s frail. You’re older—you don’t need it.”
But the truth was, Shunhua was only three months older than Chen Lu.
And for those three months, Shunhua had come to harbor a deep resentment.
She was two years older than her younger brother Yuehua, and she’d learned to give in—letting him have the milk made sense; after all, he was family. But giving it to Chen Lu? What was that supposed to mean?
Yet that was just how her mother was. Chen Cuiyue had doted on her brother all her life, revering him and doing everything to avoid being seen as someone who “didn’t support her natal family.”
Years later, when Shunhua’s eldest brother Zhenhua was sent down to the countryside, it should’ve ended there—one child per household was enough. But because Chen Lu also needed to be sent down, and she was an only child, her aunt feared she wouldn’t survive the hardship. So, Cuiyue volunteered her own daughter to take Chen Lu’s spot.
Shunhua hadn’t wanted to go. But it just so happened the Inner Mongolia Corps was recruiting. So she took Chen Lu’s place and was sent off.
Back then, Shunhua hadn’t thought much of it. She drifted through life, full of suppressed grievances she never dared to unpack. Strangely, it had been easier that way—just not thinking about it.
But now, she was awake. Now, she remembered everything, and she saw it all with painful clarity. And she was done yielding.
She would no longer yield her childhood milk. She would no longer yield her chance to stay in the city. And above all—she would never yield her children or her husband.
The milk of her childhood was long gone. The path to the countryside had already been walked. And as for the husband who might one day fall for another woman—she might never truly possess him.
But her children—those she could still protect.
Author’s Note:
Don’t worry—our heroine has a battle power of 100+!
- Unlike the spacious and orderly siheyuan (四合院) of the aristocracy, dàzáyuàn were large courtyard complexes commonly found in older urban areas of cities like Beijing, especially in the southern districts. Originally built as spacious family courtyards or official residences during the Qing dynasty or Republican era, many were later subdivided and repurposed following land reforms and urban housing shortages in the 1950s and 60s. Managed by municipal housing authorities during the era of public-private joint ownership, these compounds became dense, improvised communities, with shared kitchens, public latrines, and narrow passageways where daily life unfolded in close proximity. ↩︎