At sixteen, he'd been lonely—desolately, achingly lonely. When he'd gotten pregnant, he hadn't understood what was happening; he was still so naive. His life had been simple: work, work, and more work, day and night.
The villagers feared the Ma family. At first, a few kind-hearted aunties and fulangs had spoken up for him, but after the Ma family threatened them, they kept their distance. The other kids his age looked down on him too, and besides, he was always spinning like a top, working nonstop, isolated from everyone. No one taught him anything—no one told him what pregnancy was like.
A long time after that night, he suddenly lost his appetite and started vomiting badly. At first, he didn't think much of it—figured he was just exhausted, or that he hadn't washed the wild vegetables properly and had eaten something bad. But when the symptoms got worse, panic set in.
No one isn't afraid of death.
Even when you live as lowly as an ant.
Zhao Ger was terrified. He wanted to find someone to ask what was wrong with him. But in the vast expanse of Xiaohe Village, he looked around and couldn't find a single person.
The Liu family had been kind to him, but they weren't well-off. If he was this "sick" and needed treatment, it would surely cost a lot of silver. There was no reason to burden them. And the Lius were good-hearted—they would only worry about him.
So he endured. He was scared, anxious, alone—curled up in the damp, dark woodshed.
Later, he got so thin it was alarming. At first, he'd only throw up after eating. But then, while cooking for the Ma family, the smell of cooking oil would hit him, and he couldn't take it anymore.
He'd kneel on the ground, heaving miserably, his stomach churning and cramping. There was nothing left in him—just bile.
Old Madam Ma heard the commotion, came in, and without a word kicked him. He instinctively curled up to protect his belly and gritted his teeth without making a sound.
That night, after finishing his chores, he went back to the woodshed. As soon as the door closed, he collapsed onto the pile of straw.
Every inch of him ached.
His spine felt like it had been kicked in two—a piercing, stabbing pain that cut deep.
It was unbearable.
He half-closed his eyes and suddenly felt so, so tired. For a moment, he thought, Death wouldn't be so bad.
He wasn't afraid anymore.
Death would be release.
He let go, let the pain wash over him, and sank into a deep sleep.
The next morning, when he woke and found himself still alive, he felt no joy at all. He numbly picked up his hoe and went out to work.
Two days later, he ran into Uncle Liu on the road.
In just one month, he had wasted away to skin and bones, with dark circles under his eyes. Uncle Liu (ger) had no idea what had really happened—he simply assumed the Ma family had been mistreating him again. He held Zhao Ger and cried, calling him a poor, pitiful child.
Uncle Liu asked him, "How did you end up like this? Why did the Ma family beat you again? If something's wrong, you can tell me. I may not be able to help much, but talking about it will make you feel better." Zhao Ger looked at him for a long, long time, then finally opened his mouth and told him what was happening.
Uncle Liu was stunned. After a moment of dazed silence, he pulled Zhao Ger behind a tree and told him to lift his shirt so he could take a look.
Zhao Ger did as he was told.
Strangely enough, even though he had lost so much weight that month, his belly kept growing bigger.
Uncle Liu felt it, then covered his face and wept again.
He assumed Zhao Ger had been violated. Then he told him—he was pregnant.
Zhao Ger could hardly believe it. For a long time, he just stared blankly.
He touched his belly, his voice trembling uncontrollably. "I'm pregnant?"
Uncle Liu nodded.
A surge of joy rushed over him in an instant, flowing through his limbs and flooding his entire body. His heart pounded erratically, and Zhao Ger's eyes turned red.
There was a baby in his belly.
That year, he was sixteen.
At sixteen, he was old enough to marry, but still too young to truly understand the weight of his choices.
He often thought only of the moment, not the future.
But right now, none of that mattered—Zhao Ger was simply happy.
He had been alone for too long. He longed, he hoped, for someone to stay by his side.
It didn't matter who that person was—as long as they weren't from the Ma family, as long as they could be with him during the quiet, lantern-lit nights of the New Year season, and exchange a few words with him. That would be enough.
By then, Zhou Ger had already married Liu Xiaowen, and they went everywhere together. Zhao Ger envied him for having someone who truly cared for him. Now he had one too—this child, bound to him by blood. Others might leave him, but this child would not. This child truly belonged to him and would never abandon him.
When the Ma family learned he was pregnant, they flew into a rage and pressed him for the name of the adulterer. They wanted him to abort the child, but Zhao Ger refused to yield, even at the cost of his life. Before, when he had been disobedient, Ma Laoda would beat him, and he would never dare resist again. To survive, and because he had been beaten so many times, he had grown afraid—and so he learned to submit and comply.
Day after day, year after year, that submission became a habit.
They say habit is like something carved into the marrow—hard to change.
But for the sake of his child, Zhao Ger defied that ingrained pattern.
He had not resisted in years. This sudden rebellion was especially infuriating.
Ma Laoda had experienced the life of a master with him, enjoyed his groveling deference—and now, to be defied by someone he had trampled underfoot like an ant, his rage burned fiercely.
Zhao Ger was beaten, but he still did not change his answer.
"Get rid of the child."
"No..."
When he would not obey, Ma Laoda bought abortion medicine and tried to force it down his throat. Zhao Ger screamed with desperate fury: "I want this child! I want this child! This is my child—you cannot hurt him! If this child dies, I won't live either."
He spoke with utter seriousness, his eyes filled with stubborn resolve.
The Ma family dared not act rashly.
And so, he gave birth to Guaizai.
Back then, he had only wanted someone to keep him company. But after the birth, when he could not move and the child kept crying from the cold, it suddenly struck him: he should not have had this child.
His life was already like walking on thin ice, with no guarantee of tomorrow. Now that the child was born, how was he supposed to raise him?
Earlier, he had thought it simple—he had hidden away some pumpkins, planning to cook them for the child. But what would happen when the pumpkins ran out?
He had also never considered what would happen to the child while he himself was lying there, helpless, unable to move during labor.
He had been bought by the Ma family. He was a servant. The child he bore would one day be a servant too—without freedom, perhaps trapped in this barren place for life, living the same hellish, endless existence as him.
He regretted it.
He truly regretted it.
Later, he saved food from his own mouth and gathered wild vegetables more diligently. And so Guaizai grew up, slowly, the two of them depending on each other.
During festivals, when the Ma family killed a chicken, they always drove him and Guaizai back to the woodshed.
Just the smell of that chicken stewing was rich and fragrant, carrying far and wide, filling the entire courtyard. Guaizai pressed his eye to the crack in the door, peering out, swallowing again and again.
Zhao Ger's throat trembled as he asked Guaizai, "Do you want some?"
Guaizai came back, squeezed into his arms, wrapped his thin little arms around him, and buried his face in his chest, shaking his head. "No," he said. "Guaizai only wants wild vegetables."
He was two years old then, and the deep longing in his eyes could not be hidden. But his understanding nature did not make Zhao Ger feel any better. If the child had thrown a tantrum, Zhao Ger might not have felt so heartbroken—but instead, he said he didn't want it.
How could he not want it?
When the Ma family finished eating, they called Zhao Ger out to wash the dishes. In the plate that had held the chicken, there was a tiny bit of broth left—just a few drops, pooled at the bottom. Guaizai's eyes lit up. He picked up that plate like a treasure and handed it to Zhao Ger. "Daddy, drink," he said.
Zhao Ger said he wouldn't drink—Guaizai should have it. But Guaizai refused, holding the plate up and insisting they share.
Left with no choice, Zhao Ger took it, tilted his head back as if drinking, then told Guaizai to look up and poured the chicken broth into his mouth. Just a few drops—but Guaizai's eyes crinkled with joy. Then, completely content, he helped Zhao Ger clear the bowls and wipe down the table. Watching him, Zhao Ger was pierced by that innocent smile. His eyes grew hot, and the bitterness in his heart churned like a raging sea—beyond words.
On cold winter nights, when Guaizai huddled in his arms, shivering, unable to sleep from hunger, when Zhao Ger could do nothing to help—he was overwhelmed by regret and guilt. That guilt could not be spoken, nor could it fade. It lingered in his chest, pressing down until he could barely breathe, like a blade lodged in his flesh, twisting constantly, with no escape.
His son had done nothing wrong. He was so well-behaved. He did not deserve such suffering.
To bring a child into this world without the means to care for him—that, for the child, was a sin in itself. The child suffered, and so did he.
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