Dad’s talk of staying in the countryside forever was just him throwing a tantrum. Like all young city people, he quickly found the hardship and tedium of the farming village intolerable. When he got a job offer from the city, he went back at once. Not long after that, he mentioned to his father that he wanted to marry my mom. That was the first his family knew of her existence.

Grandpa had wanted Dad to marry his colleague Professor Lin’s daughter. Miss Lin was a music student and a very fine violinist, as well as an admirer of my dad. She made sure to give him tickets whenever her orchestra held a concert. According to Mom, this love rival of hers was short and fat with swarthy skin, and wore thick glasses. As a child, I often wondered how I’d have turned out if Dad had married Miss Lin instead. On one hand, I’d have been short, dark, and myopic. On the other, if I’d inherited her talent for the violin, I could have devastated everyone with my rendition of the tragic Butterfly Lovers at the New Year talent show, rather than performing a skit with you and Dabin that wasn’t even funny.

Grandpa told Dad he would come to regret marrying Mom. Dad replied that his regret was his own business, and Grandpa shouldn’t interfere. One morning, during a light snowfall, he brought her to the registry office, just like that. No wedding ceremony, no nuptial chamber, no bride price. For the time being, they stayed at a friend’s apartment. A simple place, no more than ten meters square, Mom’s first home in the city. A week later, her mother and brother got the long-distance bus to Jinan with a couple of live chickens and a bag of New Year pastries, hoping to visit their in-laws. Dad prevented this, and so the two families never met.

My parents were happy for a while. After all, their marriage had been built by smashing a series of obstacles, and Dad treasured it. As for Mom, no longer rearing animals or harvesting wheat beneath the scorching sun, city life seemed fresh and exciting. Dad taught her to ride his broken-down Gold Lion 28-inch bicycle. One Sunday afternoon, she wobbled through the streets to a department store, where she bought her first-ever jar of cold cream. The rosiness of her cheeks had faded by then, though in photographs of the time, she’s still a stunner. Soon after that, Dad pulled some strings to find her a job as a nanny in a local nursery. She liked this work, which allowed her to sing, dance, and play games with her little charges. Later, as they napped, she’d quietly tip their leftover food into her lunchbox and bring it home for dinner.