People can be strange sometimes. Take Gu Shunhua, for instance—when she was in the hutong, her words were soaked in that local Beijing flavor. But after spending enough time in Inner Mongolia, her Mandarin grew polished and standard. So much so that when a few of her southern comrades jokingly asked her to say something in a proper Beijing accent, she found herself tongue-tied.
It was all about the atmosphere. Without the right environment, the feeling wasn’t there. Her mouth simply wouldn’t open.
That’s exactly why she froze for a moment when she caught sight of Ren Jingnian.
Even the most familiar person, if seen out of context, could feel like a stranger. In her mind, he belonged to the Inner Mongolian Corps—to the bleak, desolate mines, to the windswept aura of the Yin Mountains. Now, seeing him suddenly standing here in a cramped shared courtyard, amidst the sweet aroma of glutinous rice wine and the curious gazes of old neighbors—it felt disorienting, like time and space had tangled.
Ren Jingnian raised an eyebrow, watching her.
Snapping out of it, she gave a small smile and said, “What brings you here all of a sudden?”
“I wrapped things up after the New Year,” Ren Jingnian replied. “Handed over what needed handing over, took care of what needed taking care of. So I came early.”
“You’d better come inside—it’s freezing out,” said Gu Shunhua.
By now, the commotion had drawn the attention of their neighbors. Heads peeked out from windows and doorways. Shunhua turned to introduce him, “This is the children’s father.”
There was no shortage of surprise. That was quick, some thought. But this was an old neighborhood. No one would show disrespect on the surface. Instead, everyone greeted him warmly and wished him a Happy New Year.
The Wuyuan mine was vast and barren. Houses were scattered thinly across the hillsides—just a dozen or so families, and nothing more. This, by contrast, was a rabbit warren of homes squeezed together, stacked like building blocks, with faces peering from every window. It was overwhelming for someone like Ren Jingnian, arriving for the first time. He felt like he’d stepped into a maze. Still, he managed a smile and exchanged New Year greetings with the neighbors.
At last, they made it inside. Gu Shunhua quickly took the large bundles from his hands and set them down. “Mom, this is Jingnian.”
Chen Cuiyue had already stood up earlier, set aside her ladle, and removed the pot of rice wine from the stove. She’d even hastily tidied her hair. Now, seeing her son-in-law, she quickly said, “It’s freezing out! Come, sit down. Have you eaten?”
“I have,” Ren Jingnian answered.
Still, Shunhua knew full well that a long train ride left little room for comfort, let alone proper meals. “Mom, let’s go ahead and cook the dumplings. Yuehua and the kids are hungry too.”
“Of course! I’ll get the dumplings going right now,” Chen Cuiyue said, bustling off. “You take him to wash up first.”
Gu Shunhua led him into the outer room. There, they found Gu Yuehua reading a book. His legs were so long that they dangled awkwardly over the window sill, unable to rest properly on the floor.
The two children had shed their padded coats and were now down to sweaters and quilted pants. They were climbing down Yuehua’s legs, sliding from thigh to shin like playful little monkeys. Manman even grabbed hold of his leg, swinging herself with delighted squeals.
The doorframe was low, and the room had barely enough space for a bed, let alone any sitting area. Ren Jingnian stood at the doorway, watching the children. As their laughter rang out, a tender light filled his eyes, and a gentle smile tugged at his lips.
Then, it was Duoduo who spotted him first—her gaze drifting across the room before landing on him. She stared blankly for a moment, wide-eyed, unable to make sense of what she was seeing.
She was still young. Ren Jingnian, not wanting to scare her with his sudden appearance, smiled and softly called out, “Duoduo.”
She stared at him for a beat longer. Then her little mouth quivered.
“Waaah—Daddy! Daddy!” she wailed, bursting into tears.
Manman saw him too and shouted, “Daddy! Daddy’s here!”
Like two little balls, the children rolled and tumbled off the edge of the bed, scrambling over to him with squeals of joy.
Ren Jingnian crouched down, gathering them into his arms, one on each side.
Duoduo burst into tears, wailing, “Daddy! Daddy, Duoduo missed you so much!”
Manman had been trying hard not to cry—his uncle had told him he was the big brother now, a proper little man, and little men didn’t cry easily. But in the end, he couldn’t hold it in either. With tears streaming down his cheeks, he sobbed, “Manman doesn’t want to be a little man anymore!”
Ren Jingnian tried to soothe one while holding the other, hugging them both gently. These two soft, sweet little ones—he couldn’t bear to put them down. And yet, he worried. After a full day and night on the train, he might not be clean. Worse, he might’ve brought the chill of the cold wind in with him. So he held them as carefully as if they were spun from glass, doing his best to comfort them both.
Gu Shunhua watched as the children finally cried themselves out, the weight of their emotions lifting. She said, “Alright now, your daddy hasn’t even had dumplings yet. Let him wash up first, then we’ll eat together.”
As she spoke, she gently wiped away their tears and lifted them off of Ren Jingnian.
Ren Jingnian glanced at her and said, “I’ll go wash my hands and face, then.”
“The basin’s in the front room,” Gu Shunhua replied. “Yuehua, take him over there.”
Turning to her younger brother, she added, “Help your brother-in-law get washed up.”
At first, Gu Yuehua had been startled to see a tall man in military uniform appear so suddenly. Now, realizing who he was, he quickly recovered. “Sure, sure. Um—brother-in-law, come this way.”
Truth be told, saying brother-in-law for the first time felt awkward, his tongue tripping slightly. After all, it was their first time meeting—and his sister had already divorced this man.
Still, if his sister told him to call him brother-in-law, then that’s what he’d call him.
Ren Jingnian looked over at him and said, “You must be Yuehua. Your sister talks about you often.”
Yuehua grinned. “Yes, brother-in-law. Let’s go this way.”
With that, Gu Yuehua led Ren Jingnian off to wash up, while Gu Shunhua turned to the children and comforted them, “No more tears now. We’re about to eat dumplings.”
Though their eyes still brimmed with moisture, the two children nodded obediently.
Gu Shunhua bundled them up in their padded jackets and little leather shoes, then led them to the front room.
By now, Gu Quanfu had heard the news and come back. He had already met Ren Jingnian before.
The dumplings were hot and steaming as they came out of the pot. Chen Cuiyue welcomed everyone to the table, and the family sat down together for the meal.
The dumplings had been expertly prepared—Chen Cuiyue had rolled the wrappers herself, while Gu Quanfu had mixed the fillings with his usual precision. He had a real knack for it: beef with scallions, lamb with winter melon and bottle gourd, shrimp with chives—each blend measured in just the right proportions. Thankfully, this year he’d been sent to work at Yuhua Terrace, and right before the New Year, the restaurant handed out a generous supply of ration and vegetable coupons to its staff. They didn’t have to settle for cabbage dumplings this time. Instead, they made luxurious ones with beef and scallions, and shrimp and chives—flavors that felt like a real treat compared to the usual fare.
The steaming dumplings came out of the pot, each one delicate and full, with thin wrappers stretched over plump fillings. Paired with specially purchased Zhenjiang black vinegar and the pungent Laba garlic they’d prepared ahead of time, the meal was a feast of bold, layered flavors.
Chen Cuiyue welcomed everyone heartily. “Eat, eat—now that you’re here, this is your home. No need to stand on ceremony!”
She placed a steaming bowl of dumplings in front of Ren Jingnian.
He was about to say something when Gu Shunhua, without giving him a chance, placed chopsticks right into his hand. “Eat first. Around here, we don’t talk while eating dumplings. Just eat—it’s the rule.”
The words at the tip of Ren Jingnian’s tongue dissolved. He glanced at Gu Shunhua—she looked utterly serious. So he nodded and said nothing.
Gu Yuehua, watching from the side, nearly burst out laughing. My sister really knows how to handle him—he’s completely at her mercy.
Gu Quanfu remained stern and silent. Chen Cuiyue gave a silent sigh—her daughter truly had a way with her husband.
The dumplings, seasoned by Gu Quanfu’s own hand, were simply superb. With a single bite, juice burst from the filling, rich and fragrant. When dipped into the black vinegar, the flavor was downright exquisite.
Because of what Gu Shunhua had said, everyone quietly lowered their heads and ate. No one spoke.
Only the children whispered softly now and then, their little voices filled with joy. Every now and then, they looked up at their father—just seeing him was enough to fill their hearts.
Gu Shunhua picked up a piece of pickled mustard cabbage and placed it in Ren Jingnian’s bowl. “Try this. Around here, we always eat this with our dumplings during New Year.”
Ren Jingnian looked down to see a thick, juicy mound bathed in a yellowish sauce—it seemed to be cabbage?
He figured it must be one of those old Beijing side dishes. Nodding, he took a bite.
The moment it entered his mouth, a sharp, pungent blast shot straight up his nose and into his skull. His eyes stung. He nearly teared up.
Gu Shunhua pressed her lips together, suppressing a smile.
Gu Quanfu cleared his throat pointedly, expression solemn.
Gu Yuehua couldn’t take it anymore and quickly chimed in, “Brother-in-law, drink some dumpling soup!”
Ren Jingnian hastily took a few sips of the hot broth, finally easing the sting. But once the shock faded, he had to admit—the taste had a crispness, a sweetness, and a bold freshness that was oddly satisfying.
“It’s pickled mustard cabbage,” Gu Shunhua explained.
Pickled mustard cabbage is made by slicing napa cabbage into inch-high rounds, then pickling it in mustard. Since New Year’s food tends to be heavy, this dish adds contrast—clean and sharp, it cuts through the greasiness.
Ren Jingnian raised an eyebrow and gave her a helpless look.
He’d read about mustard before but had never actually tasted it—he hadn’t expected it to be this intense.
Gu Yuehua was struggling not to laugh out loud.
By the time everyone had eaten their fill of dumplings, Chen Cuiyue got up to clear the table. Gu Yuehua pitched in, while Gu Shunhua helped the children finish their soup. Meanwhile, Gu Quanfu struck up a conversation with Ren Jingnian.
It was the usual small talk: What kind of food do they eat for New Year where you’re from? Do they still make ancestral offerings? What’s the daily fare like? What does your family do? Who else is at home?
Ren Jingnian responded dutifully. His grandparents had been farmers. During land reform, the family had been allotted some land. His father got a factory job early on, working at the commune’s grain and oil station. His mother farmed but passed away when he was seven or eight. His father remarried and had another son.
His half-brother was nine years younger, only fifteen now, and their father was still working.
Hearing all this, Gu Quanfu clearly wasn’t thrilled. A child without a mother, with a stepmother and half-brother… Not exactly an ideal in-law situation. His daughter would surely suffer if she married into such a family. But then again, the children were already here—two of them, staring up at their father with wide, adoring eyes. So he held his tongue.
Besides, the son-in-law seemed capable enough. He was working at the Langfang Pipeline Bureau now—a reputable unit with decent benefits, according to the inquiries he’d made.
The atmosphere had grown a bit chilly with all the probing, so Gu Shunhua deliberately shifted the subject. “How’s your studying going lately?”
That caught Yuehua’s interest. He kept busying himself but was clearly listening in.
Gu Quanfu picked up on it too. “Right, I heard you’re reviewing to take the university entrance exams?”
Ren Jingnian nodded. “Yes, I’ve been reviewing. Thanks to the materials Shunhua sent me. They’ve been a huge help. It’s going well.”
Gu Quanfu raised an eyebrow. “Shunhua says you joined the army at sixteen. Can you really pick up book learning again after all that?”
Ren Jingnian explained, “My mother was literate. She taught me to read from a young age. I started school earlier than most and advanced quickly—skipped grades. When I enlisted at sixteen, I’d already finished high school. It’s been a long time, so I’ve grown a bit rusty, but now that I’m reviewing, a lot is coming back.”
“Your mother was literate?” Gu Quanfu asked.
“She went to school in Beijing before the Liberation,” Ren Jingnian replied. “But things got turbulent later. Her hometown was in crisis, so she fled and ended up in our area, where she married my father.”
“What was your mother’s surname? What family did she come from?” Gu Quanfu pressed.
“She came from a humble background—her surname was Zhang.”
Gu Quanfu thought for a moment. He couldn’t recall any prominent families by that name. So he simply said, “Then study hard. If you pass and come to Beijing for university, everything will be much easier.”
Of course, if he didn’t pass, staying in Langfang wouldn’t be the end of the world. It was close enough, and though life might be tougher, it was still acceptable. All in all, Gu Quanfu found the son-in-law passable.
Hearing this, Gu Shunhua breathed a quiet sigh of relief. She knew that her father’s “evaluation” had more or less concluded. True, she and Ren Jingnian had been together for eight years—and they would remarry regardless of family approval. But still, who didn’t hope for a smoother path? It felt better when the family was on board.
Gu Yuehua scooted over, eager. “Brother-in-law, how are you studying? I’ve been reviewing too—it was my sister who got me the materials. But it’s been such a headache.”
Ren Jingnian chuckled. “What are you studying now?”
“I’m stuck on Faraday’s Law. It’s driving me nuts.”
“That one I actually know fairly well. What part are you confused about?”
Yuehua’s eyes lit up. He immediately dragged his little stool closer and started explaining his trouble spots to Ren Jingnian.
The questions weren’t too difficult. With just a few pointers, Ren Jingnian cleared things up, and Yuehua had a sudden moment of realization.
Watching this, Chen Cuiyue was more than pleased. She already liked her son-in-law—now she was delighted. “Now that Jingnian’s here, he can help guide Yuehua a bit.”
Gu Shunhua added, “He might not have all the answers, but at least they can discuss things together—it’s not a bad setup.”
Then, Ren Jingnian began unpacking the items he had brought. The bags were full—dried beef, local cheese, Inner Mongolian steel-cut noodles, even a piece of sheepskin for the elder couple to make a warm vest or coat.
Of course, he hadn’t forgotten the children. He’d brought each of them a fur-lined leather jacket.
The moment the kids saw them, they were over the moon. They tried them on right away. The jackets were a bit big, but once spring came and they shed their padded coats, they’d fit just right.
After chatting for so long, it was already getting late. Chen Cuiyue suggested it was time to rest, and Shunhua had been thinking the same. Even if Ren Jingnian was healthy and strong, that long train ride must’ve been exhausting—anyone would be worn out.
Besides, after all this conversation and “evaluation,” this semi-official, semi-informal son-in-law had passed the family test.
So she got up, took the children, and led Ren Jingnian toward the outer room.
Chen Cuiyue paused, suddenly realizing—Wait, my daughter’s been living in the outer room this whole time, and that space is tiny!
She couldn’t help but feel puzzled. Why didn’t we just let her stay in the back room? That was at least a proper five-square-meter space—small, yes, but bigger than the outer room’s less-than-four-square meters. You could fit a proper bed in there.
She spoke up, “Shunhua, why don’t you and Jingnian take the back room? The bed there is bigger.”
But Gu Shunhua had already considered this. Come spring, she planned to build her own place. Once the house was up and aired out, they would move in right away. Staying in the outer room for now made it justifiable to use the adjacent plot to build—it would be a clear, legitimate claim. If she were already occupying the back room, it might complicate things.
After all, when her brother and sister-in-law returned, she didn’t want to leave any room for dispute. If she’d built the house on what others might consider shared land, trouble could arise—even if everyone understood the situation, feelings didn’t always align with logic.
And as for her eldest brother—he might be kind and decent, but now he had a wife, someone she hadn’t met. Who could say what sort of personality this sister-in-law had? In the novel, the brother and his wife weren’t even mentioned. She had no reference at all.
So it was better to draw the lines clearly from the start—I’m temporarily borrowing the outer room, and I’ll soon be moving into my own house. She replied, “It’s fine. We’ll make do. My brother and sister-in-law are supposed to arrive during the New Year anyway. Let him get used to it now. Besides, it’s just for a few days before he goes back to Langfang—he’s not staying long.”
Chen Cuiyue paused, then found herself unable to argue.
Seeing this, Yuehua got up. “The outer room has a stove now. It’s actually pretty warm. The only issue is the bed—it might be uncomfortable for Brother-in-law. How about this: I’ll move the bedboard from the back room and rearrange things. That way, they’ll have something to sleep on.”
Shunhua considered it and agreed. “Alright, let’s do that.”
Yuehua immediately jumped into action. The reason they needed to move the bedboard? Simple—the family didn’t actually have a proper bed.
Back in the days when Gu Quanfu was still head chef, times were better. But back then the kids were young and a single bed was enough. Later, after he stepped down and life grew tighter, building another bed simply wasn’t an option.
But kids grow up, and they can’t sleep with their parents forever. So like many poor families at the time, they built makeshift beds.
A “bedboard” was just a plank laid across bricks stacked at either end. Throw a straw mat and a cotton pad on top, and voilà—a bed. Crude but efficient.
Yuehua genuinely admired this brother-in-law. The man was sharp—just a few tips on that physics problem and it all made sense. And more importantly, he was his sister’s man, and the father of Duoduo and Manman. That alone earned him Yuehua’s respect.
He was more enthusiastic than anyone, hurrying off to move the planks. Of course, Ren Jingnian couldn’t just stand around watching—he rolled up his sleeves and joined in.
Soon, they had the bricks repositioned and the large bedboard secured. The makeshift bed was in place.
The only downside? There was now almost no space to walk in the little outer room.
“This is perfect,” said Gu Shunhua with a smile. “Step into the room, and straight onto the bed. The stove’s right at the foot—it’ll be warm as a bun by morning.”
Everyone chuckled at Gu Shunhua’s lighthearted remark.
Not long after, Chen Cuiyue brought over a metal thermos and a basin, along with two brand-new towels. “You must be exhausted from the trip. Soak your feet and get to bed early.”
“We know, Mom,” Shunhua replied.
Once everything was tidied up, Gu Yuehua went to the back room, and Chen Cuiyue retired as well. The door between the outer and back room was gently shut. In that tiny outer room, only the little family of four remained.
The space was truly cramped. With the bedboards and straw mat spread out, even standing beside the small white stove was a squeeze—especially with two washbasins and a chamber pot taking up floor space.
The two children had already taken off their shoes and climbed into bed, giggling and tumbling about. The bed felt larger than before, more comfortable—they could roll around as much as they wanted.
Ren Jingnian clearly wasn’t used to such tight quarters. No matter how rough things had been in Inner Mongolia or back in his hometown, space had never been an issue. He’d never stayed in a place this cramped.
Seeing the look on his face, Gu Yuehua offered a matter-of-fact explanation: “It’s just how it is. Too many people in the family, not enough space.”
Yet even in these conditions, people fought to transfer their hukou back here. Because it was Beijing—a big city, with access to market rations and more opportunities. More chances for themselves, and even more for the next generation.
Even back in the old days before Liberation, poor farmers from Hebei had tried every way to squeeze into the capital. No matter how hard it was, if they could carve out a life here—however humble—there was hope. A child who caught a stroke of luck, or had the right drive, could lift the entire family out of poverty.
Staying in Beijing meant staying close to possibility. It would always be better than the provinces.
“It’s nothing,” said Ren Jingnian. “I expected this. What do we do now—wash the kids first?”
“You’ve been on the train all day. You wash your face first,” said Gu Shunhua. “I’ll wash the kids’ hands and faces. Once we’re done, we’ll all soak our feet and get some rest.”
“Alright,” he agreed.
After all, this was a man who had endured the hardships of a remote mining corps—adaptability was his strength. He moved the bedding slightly away from the stove so it wouldn’t overheat, then began making the bed. “I’ll get it ready so the kids can lie down soon.”
Shunhua poured hot water and tempered it with cool, testing it with her hand. The temperature was just right. She reached for the towels, ready to clean the children’s faces—
But before she could begin, both kids burst into protest, rolling about and chanting that they wanted Daddy to do it.
“You little rascals,” she sighed. “Are you spoiling your father or trying to wear him out?”
Duoduo pouted and insisted, “I want Daddy! I want Daddy!”
Manman chimed in too, declaring, “I’m a little man, and Daddy’s a man too—men wash men’s faces!”
Shunhua burst into laughter. “Did you learn that from your uncle? Didn’t you say earlier, when you were crying, that you didn’t want to be a little man anymore?”
Caught off guard, Manman lowered his voice, “Then… I do want to be a little man.”
Shunhua turned to Ren Jingnian. “Your son and daughter are both clinging to you—guess you’re on duty.”
He smiled, clearly pleased. “Alright.”
The towel was soon soaking in the enamel basin. After wringing it out, he scooped up Duoduo first and carefully wiped her little face. She squeezed her eyes shut tight, enduring it only because her father was the one doing it.
Then it was Manman’s turn.
Once the kids were clean, he quickly washed up himself. After that, the whole family soaked their feet, and then it was time for bed.
The makeshift wooden bed wasn’t exactly sturdy—it creaked and groaned under pressure. At 1.83 meters tall and solidly built, Ren Jingnian had to move with great care.
Fortunately, this setup gave him just enough room to stretch out his legs, though he had to lie at a slight angle.
Shunhua arranged them: the two kids in the middle, she herself on the inside, and Jingnian on the outer edge. That way, everyone could lie down properly.
Once they were finally under the thick quilt, the family huddled close, pressed warmly against each other.
When the room fell silent, the sounds outside drifted in—the faint howl of wind, a fitful cough, someone dumping dirty water, a child crying in the distance.
The noises weren’t distinct, but they were there. And somehow, they only emphasized how peaceful this little room was. The two children nestled happily against their parents, whispering softly about kindergarten, the dumplings, and why Daddy had taken so long to come.
“If you were any later, I was gonna be mad,” said one small voice.
Then… nothing. Silence gave way to the soft rustle of breathing, the tiniest of snores.
Shunhua turned slightly. In the faint glow of the stove, she saw both children sound asleep.
“They’re out, aren’t they?” Ren Jingnian whispered.
The red coals flickered in the darkness. His voice, low and husky, carried a quiet intimacy—it slipped through her heart like silk.
It reminded her of nights long past, cold and full of wind, when the children were still babies. He would ask her the same question once they’d drifted off.
She would tug at his sleeve—just slightly—and he would understand, rolling over toward her.
It had been so long. Yet now, she felt her cheeks flush. She murmured a quiet “Mm.”
Ren Jingnian shifted slightly, wrapping an arm around the children in a more comfortable position. It brought him even closer to her.
“You must’ve had a rough time bringing the kids here alone,” he said softly.
“It wasn’t so bad,” she replied. “Hardship is part of life no matter where you go. But things are looking up now—we have our hukou, we’ve got the stove, the coal, and soon we’ll have our own place.”
He didn’t say anything more.
His steady, rhythmic breathing filled the darkness, and Shunhua felt her heart stir with thoughts she couldn’t name.
Her cheeks were warm again.
In the quiet that followed, Ren Jingnian finally spoke.
“Over a thousand years ago, when Bai Juyi entered Chang’an, he wrote, ‘In Chang’an, rice is expensive, and settling down is hard.’ A thousand years later, it’s still hard to live in the capital. You brought the children here alone, secured the household registration, and even carved out a space in this courtyard compound… these days must have been hard on you.”
The moment he said that, Gu Shunhua’s tears fell—just like that, in a sudden, unbidden rush.
Ever since discovering the truth of that book, she had been struggling, caught in a relentless battle.
A woman, with two children not even three years old, returning alone to the vast sprawl of Beijing—facing a mother who didn’t truly love her, relatives who pressured her, neighbors trying to marry her off to some balding old man. Braving the biting wind as she ran between the Educated Youth Office, the street committee, and the Housing Bureau. Pleading for help, pushing through with a thick skin, using a mix of strategy, compromise, and even shameless persistence.
Was it degrading? Was it shameful? Of course it was.
But what choice did she have? With two small children depending on her, she had no room to retreat. She had to push forward. She had to carve out a path for them.
People only ever said how capable she was—how she was like a “female man,” tough and resilient. No one ever saw how cold she was at night, how exhausted she became, how badly she longed for a moment to just breathe.
Only he could say something like that.
Because the children weren’t just hers—they were his too. Because between them was not just emotion, but blood. Shared flesh.
She bit her lip, and silent tears streamed down her face. But Ren Jingnian noticed. He reached past the two children and gently touched her cheek, wiping her tears.
His hand was warm and dry, and carried the scent she once loved so much. So familiar. So distant.
They had known each other for eight years, married for four. Always close, always intimate. And yet at some point—without even realizing—it had started to fracture.
Perhaps it began when he suggested they get divorced.
It had started as a proposal: divorce so she could return to the city. She wanted to accept, yet couldn’t let go. So they fell into silence, into arguments, into bitter persuasion. There were nights she cried in his arms. There were nights when tears turned to shouting.
After over a week of this painful back-and-forth, they finally gave in. Somehow, they ended up signing the papers.
What had she been thinking when she signed? What about him?
Marriage was sacred. Even if they told themselves it was just for the sake of hukou, for the children’s future, once they divided everything—tables, chairs, savings, children—once they wrote it all down in black and white, something in their hearts had quietly cracked.
It was a legal divorce. A real one. Not a “fake” to fool the authorities.
At first, they comforted each other—Once you settle your registration and bring the kids, we’ll remarry. Once I get transferred to Beijing, we’ll be together again.
But slowly, those words disappeared. Neither of them said them anymore.
They’d seen too much: couples torn apart by the pressure to return to the city, lovers separated by distance, crushed by reality. They knew how impossible it was to reverse rural–urban divisions. Getting transferred to Beijing? That was a fantasy.
Without hukou, you had no ration coupons, no food, no status. Even if he came to her, he would be a drifter—no job, no future.
So when she boarded the train alone and looked back at her ex-husband, she knew—she had to find a way to bring the children to her. That much was clear. They were her flesh and blood. She had to secure work, housing, status… and then she could apply to reunite with them legally.
But him—her ex-husband? She no longer knew where they stood.
The future was too uncertain.
Even if their feelings didn’t change, separation was inevitable.
She never imagined they would ever have a moment like this again: lying side by side in a warm but narrow bed, whispering under a shared quilt, hearing him say softly, “You’ve had a hard time.”
He wiped her tears—but she cried harder. Her whole body trembled.
They were back together now. He was still so gentle, so thoughtful—just like the man she fell for. But there was so much in her heart. So much he couldn’t understand.
That day on the streets of Dashilan, when she realized the truth of the book, when she saw how the story would unfold—how their love would fade, how he would end up with another woman—it hadn’t made her bitter. Just quietly resigned, as if it were fate.
But the children—how could they be abandoned to that kind of ending?
Why?
She had signed those divorce papers for them. How could she ever abandon them? And how could he, after remarrying and starting a new family, neglect those bright, beautiful children?
She hated the plot of that book with everything she had. But she didn’t know how to fight it, except to flail blindly and charge forward.
Seeing how hard she cried, Ren Jingnian sat up. He gently moved the children closer to the wall, then pulled her into his arms. Cradling her tightly, wiping her tears, kissing her cheeks. “Don’t cry. I’m here now, aren’t I? I’ll build the house, I’ll make the furniture—I’ll come here every weekend.”
Still sobbing, she muttered, “You’re the one who asked for a divorce.”
He thought she was crying over the hardships in the capital and felt both guilty and pained. “Wasn’t it for the sake of getting you back to Beijing?”
“You think that’s reason enough? Why did you have to be the one to bring up divorce?”
He had no answer. After a moment’s silence, he murmured, “We’re going to remarry soon.”
But she wouldn’t let it go. “If we really had divorced for good, and you’d ended up with another woman—would you still treat Duoduo and Manman well?”
“Of course I would!”
“‘Of course’? You’d be with someone else—would you still treat them well?”
Exasperated, he said, “How would I end up with someone else? That’s not going to happen!”
“But if it did—if you woke up one day and realized you had remarried someone else—would you still protect Duoduo and Manman with everything you had?”
The scenario was absurd, but she was relentless.
Ren Jingnian thought about it. “Of course. They’re our children. How could I not?”
“And what if you didn’t? What if you became one of those fathers who turn cold after a remarriage? Do you think you’d be that kind of man?”
He gritted his teeth. “Do you think I’m that kind of man?”
“No.”
“Then why ask me such ridiculous things?”
She sighed. “I guess there’s no point.”
There really wasn’t. She trusted his character. Even if their love faded, even if distance kept them apart—he would never harm their children.
All this torment—it wasn’t because of him. It was because of the story. Because of the way fate kept pulling strings she didn’t agree with. Just like she hadn’t wanted to meet Yan Chongli, but had met him anyway.
Then Ren Jingnian asked, “Now it’s my turn.”
“…Ask,” she said.
“Why are you asking me all these things?”
“My brain’s fried. Happy now?”
“Why were you crying like that?”
“I was thinking about how hard everything’s been.”
“One last question.”
“Mm?”
His voice dropped, serious. “Shunhua, why did you suddenly come back to the mine?”
She froze.
He cupped her face with both hands, his gaze piercing through the dark. “When you looked at me then… it was like you didn’t know me. Why?”
He would never tell her just how much that look had cut him—how much it had felt like a knife to the heart.
She bit her lip and tried to pull away, but he held her fast.
“Shunhua, I need to know. I fought so hard for this—for a chance to be near you again. And now I’ve made it. We can be together again, get remarried. But why did you look at me like that? What were you thinking?”
She started crying all over again. “Why do you have to ask? Can’t I just not say it?”
Her pain pained him too.
“Is this about your cousin?” he asked. “Did Chen Lu say something to you? Did something happen? Or did you misunderstand something?”
But Shunhua didn’t want to say it. Didn’t want to speak that cursed storyline aloud. Somewhere deep inside, she feared that saying it might trigger it. That knowing it was “fated” might somehow make it real.
She wanted to keep him far from Chen Lu—as far as humanly possible.
“I don’t want to talk about her. Don’t want to mention her. What does she have to do with me? Who is she to affect my life?”
Seeing how upset she was, Ren Jingnian backed down. “Okay, okay. I won’t ask anymore.”
She lay in his arms, sobbing quietly for a while. Then she wiped her tears and muttered, “If you’re going to stay in Beijing, you better remember a few things. Otherwise, I’ll be furious.”
“What is it?” he asked.
“First, you’re not allowed to talk to Chen Lu. Don’t look at her, don’t smile at her, don’t go near her. Anything involving her, you tell me first. Treat her like a pile of cow dung and steer clear.”
“…Alright.”
“You promise? You really won’t talk to her?”
“Didn’t you say she’s cow dung? Why would I talk to cow dung?”
At that, she finally laughed through her tears. Burying herself against his chest, she rubbed her cheeks against his warm undershirt, soaking up the last of her tears.
“Remember that,” she said softly. “We’ll live well. Once you go to Langfang and get your referral letter, we’ll file for remarriage.”
She realized that as soon as he returned, she became a child again—spoiled, sweet, unreasonable.
So foolish.
And yet, for the first time in so long, she felt safe enough to be foolish.