Dad lived in the dorms, and only came home at weekends. From Monday to Saturday, he read Tolstoy, discussed poetry and philosophy with his teachers and classmates, and watched films in the small university hall. On Sundays, he’d bring his dirty laundry home, carry fifty pounds of flour back from the grain store, move their charcoal supply into a temporary rain shelter, clear out the blocked stove. Mom made him dumplings, the only way she knew to show affection. This was my dad’s week, a romantic body with a pragmatic tail.

He wrote poetry back then. It was published in journals, and his female classmates would read it to themselves in private. Whenever he walked through campus, he was followed by several pairs of eyes. As a child, I found his verses in some old magazines at home. I didn’t understand them, but thought they were pretty, romantic in a way that had nothing to do with Mom. Or at least, I found it hard to connect these emotions with her. Dad even set up a poetry society with some classmates, and became its president. They’d often get together to talk about poetry, and he spent even fewer weekends at home. The society became very influential, and the founding members would go on to become prominent poets. All except my dad, though they all said he was the most talented of the lot.

Why did my father stop writing poetry? That’s a puzzle. Many years later, I met his classmate Yin Zheng, who told me that he and Dad stayed on at the university after graduating, teaching as they worked towards their master’s degrees. In his first year of postgraduate studies, Dad abruptly stopped composing poetry—the ability simply deserted him. It was a dark time for him. The other major event in his life that year was my birth, but who can say if these two things were connected?

My parents’ relationship was already beginning to cool. The three of us moved into faculty accommodation, so at least we had a home of our own, but Dad was almost never there—he preferred to stay in his office. Maybe he thought his inability to write poetry had something to do with Mom, or maybe he wanted to get through this difficult time on his own.

One of Dad’s classmates was in the same situation, having married a village girl whilst in the countryside. This man returned to the city for his studies, divorced his bride not long after graduation, and got together with a woman from his college. My father didn’t get divorced or fall in love with any of his students, though apparently he had his share of admirers. I guess his determination to make the marriage work wasn’t because of his feelings for Mom, but resolute defiance of Grandpa.