Mom is happy for you. All your efforts over the years are finally worth it!"
Zhang Guiying's voice trembled as tears welled in her eyes.
Yang milan lowered his head, guilt heavy in his chest. He knew how much his wife had endured for this day.
Before marriage, Li mercy had been the apple of her family's eye. Her father adored her, her brothers spoiled her, and she grew up untouched by hardship—skin fair, manners gentle, a city girl raised in the countryside. But after marriage, everything changed. For the sake of her husband's pride and to avoid her sisters-in-law's gossip, she had forced herself into the fields. Her delicate hands, once uncalloused, now bore the marks of labor.
Yet her husband contributed little. Yang milan worked as a scorekeeper, but he was lazy, his work points meager. Farming was no better—he was clumsy and slow. The burden of the family fell to Li mercy , who bent her back beneath the sun so their household could survive.
Now, standing before her mother, Yang milan grasped Li metcy's hand and said earnestly, "Mom, don't worry. I will treat mercy well."
Zhang Guiying searched his face, then nodded. "Mother believes you."
To prove his sincerity, Yang milan opened a bundle and spread out the cloth he had bought. Bright floral patterns spilled across the room. Gasps of surprise filled the air.
"So much—more than ten feet!" Zhang Guiying exclaimed.
Zhong Na, the fourth sister-in-law, looked on with envy. "Such fine fabric… how beautiful."
Yang milan smiled. "Mom, there are fourteen feet here. Make clothes for everyone—mercy , maggie Father, yourself, and the little ones at home."
Guiying hesitated. "This… it's too much."
But Yang milan insisted. "Mom, without your help, I would have fallen long ago. You gave us money, food, kindness—far more than this cloth is worth. Before, I was powerless. Now I can finally give something back. Please, accept it."
Li mercy added softly, "Mom, listen to him."
Tears blurred Guiying's vision. "Ah… you are all good children." She clutched the fabric as though holding her daughter's happiness.
Later, Yang milan revealed another treasure—the freshly drawn marriage certificate. Red paper, official stamps, and photographs stared back at Zhang Guiying. Her breath caught. Tears rolled down her cheeks. She knew how much her daughter had endured for this one piece of paper. Now, at last, it was real.
"Mom, don't cry," mercy whispered, patting her back. "This is a good thing."
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In the days that followed, Yang milan began to plan. Their adobe home was cramped and dark—two rooms, small and poorly lit. He dreamed of expanding it, adding a study for his work. He thought of mercy forced to wash with rags at home while men bathed freely in rivers, and vowed to build a bathroom for her. He thought of education—the staggering costs of sending two children to college, and perhaps even to shilti, his home city. One day, he told himself, he would buy a courtyard house there.
But dreams required money, and Yang milan had only one skill to rely on—translation. Without a desk, he set a low stool beside the millstone in the yard and bent over to read and write. His sister-in-law once peeked at his English journals, found the pages unreadable, and quickly lost interest. His mother-in-law helped with the children, leaving him peace to work. Slowly, his efficiency grew.
At noon, Li mercy appeared with a bowl of stewed vegetables and a few coarse, black-faced steamed buns from her parents' home. Yang milan , once accustomed to fine grains, struggled to swallow them. The stew was plain, the buns rough on his throat. Yet he ate in silence, reminding himself that this was considered good food here. Many families survived only on wild vegetables.
Looking at the hard life around him, Yang milan sighed. The lives of ordinary people in this era were bitter. Yet he believed suffering was not without end.
"When the time is right," he thought, "I will find a way out. I will lead us all to a better life."