Chapter Ten: Endless Worries

Dong Yanyan woke up from a chaotic dream, her face streaked with tears. The marks on her pillow were still visible, but already cold. Dawn was just breaking; the small alarm clock on her bedside table pointed to half past five. From afar drifted the melody of “The World Only Mothers Are Good.” She sat up and gazed out the window. The sound came from the tofu pudding vendor across the Yong’an River behind their building—a song she had listened to for four years.

But now, hearing it again, her heart ached as if scratched raw: day brings thoughts, night brings dreams, and her worries were not unfounded. She had left so quietly, and perhaps now no one was watching over Lulu. The thought of that pitiful little face, those tearful, wide eyes, tangled Yanyan’s heart into a hopeless mess. When Lulu was always by her side, she found the child bothersome, but now, in their separation, she realized she couldn’t do without her. Without that soft whining and clinging, her world felt hollow.

How is Lulu now? Is she as pitiful as in her dreams? She’d been burdened with two such helpless grandmothers, so Lulu had always followed her mother, growing up lonely. She struggled to adjust to kindergarten and was timid by nature, lacking any sense of security. Now that her mother was gone, for Lulu, it must feel as if half the sky had collapsed.

No, she must be sent to full-time care. Quietly, Yanyan made the decision for Xu Cheng, though she doubted he would hear it. Her heart twisted in unbearable pain, and tears gushed forth like a flood, unstoppable—so she decided to let herself cry.

“Fifth, what’s wrong with you? Crying so early in the morning?” Across from her, Liu Ying opened her eyes, propped herself on her pillow, and looked at her in surprise.

“Just homesick,” Yanyan replied offhandedly, wiping her tears.

“I miss home too,” said Lu Tian, hugging her pillow in the lower bunk diagonal to her, eyes shimmering with tears.

“Missing home after less than a month?” Liu Ying sighed, furrowing her brow and falling silent. She, too, missed home. Girls at this age were always so sensitive.

Yanyan said nothing more. They wouldn’t understand her sorrow.

Child, this time I must find you good grandparents—ones who will love and care for you. That way, when your mother is gone, there will still be someone you can rely on! Yanyan made a quiet vow. She knew her own mother—awkward, insecure, and wary of daughters—could not be counted on. Trying to change the old woman’s character was harder than reaching the sky; this was the painful lesson of her last few years. She had talked and argued with her parents countless times, only for her mother to grow even more frightened of her, let alone come to help with the child. The only way was to find a mother-in-law who liked children and could help her raise her daughter. Family affection can’t be replaced; she hoped this time her daughter could grow up surrounded by love. Children who don’t lack affection won’t grow up with emotional flaws.

For once, she didn’t linger in bed, but was the first in the dormitory to get up. She went to the washroom, scrubbed her lunch pail, and picked up her meal tickets—a set of brightly colored slips, like notes, with amounts ranging from twenty cents to a yuan. One set cost thirty yuan; you tore off whichever you used, until two years later, when the tickets were replaced by meal cards.

“Who’s coming with me to get breakfast?” she called out cheerfully. At last, she didn’t have to cook for herself! Here, the cafeteria served ready-made food—she could have whatever she wanted.

“Yanyan, I’ll go with you,” answered Xu Xinran, the seventh in their dorm, from the bunk opposite. She knelt on her bed, slowly fiddling with her quilt, smiling as she spoke.

“I’ll wash up first, Xinran, hurry up!” Yanyan put down her lunch pail, grabbed her basin, and went to wash her face. She knew Xinran’s temperament well—slow enough to shame a snail. Sure enough, when she came back, Xinran still hadn’t tied her shoes.

“Hurry up, or there’ll be no food left!” Unable to stand it, she helped Xinran with her other shoe, grabbed the lunch pail, and dragged her out.

Xinran followed at a small run, her constant gentle smile on her lips. By the time the two arrived at the cafeteria, a long line had already formed.

“You little slowpoke, what are we going to do about you?” Yanyan tapped Xinran’s smooth forehead, helpless. After graduation, the two became the closest of friends. On the day before she returned, they were still sitting on her sofa at home, discussing marriage. This slowpoke only thought of dating in her twenties, had gone through countless boyfriends, each relationship dragging on for a year or two before fizzling out. By the age of thirty, she was still alone, enviously watching classmates get married and have children, only then beginning to worry.

Xinran was the kind of girl who was flawless yet unremarkable—regular features, long flowing hair, a well-proportioned figure, average height. With a little effort, she could be a bright, youthful beauty; without it, she’d disappear in a crowd. It all came down to her calm, even detached personality. She rarely got angry or excited; Yanyan couldn’t recall ever seeing her cry. She’d even joked with her, “A single tear from you is rarer than pearls.” Pearls, at least, have a price—Xinran’s eyes seemed immune to rain.

Having been best friends for over a decade, Yanyan set herself a new goal in this second chance at life: to get this girl married off as soon as possible—or at least find her a boyfriend! She mused to herself.

“It’s your turn. What are you thinking about?” Xinran nudged her. Snapping back to reality, Yanyan handed her lunch pail through the window. “One steamed bun, a bowl of porridge, a piece of red bean cake, and a serving of pickled greens!” She spoke without thinking, tearing off a one-yuan meal ticket. The total came to exactly one yuan. For four years, she’d eaten this breakfast every day; though more than ten years had passed, the memory was still vivid.

Her pail was returned to her, half-filled with porridge, a fist-sized steamed bun, and a heaping portion of pickles—how heartwarming! She took a big bite of the bun with relish. Satisfied, she left the line, heading to the classroom with her breakfast—a habit formed long ago.

A small school had its advantages. There was no morning exercise; after breakfast, it was straight to class. The thought of lessons filled Yanyan with hope—she was determined to study hard and not waste her time again.

“The high-frequency tuner usually consists of the input circuit, high-frequency amplifier, mixer, and local oscillator. Its functions are frequency selection, amplification, and frequency conversion…”

Yanyan took careful notes, but no matter how diligent, her handwriting was still terribly ugly—loose and boneless. She’d known her writing was bad, but hadn’t realized it was this dreadful. No wonder; in recent years, apart from signing in at parents’ meetings for Lulu, she’d typed everything on the computer and barely held a pen. Her hand had grown rusty. Looks like she’d have to practice her writing too. She glanced at her desk mate, Liu Qiang, who sat with his head drooping, nodding as it knocked against the edge of the desk, while his right hand absentmindedly drew circles in his notebook. To be able to take notes while sleepwalking—this was a skill everyone in vocational school mastered over four years.