Unconditional love story
He is 64 this year, a farmer whose face is turned to the yellow earth and back to the sky. Everyone says he’s a pushover because he’s uneducated, poor, has never traveled far, and has no skills other than holding a hoe and repeatedly tilling the few pieces of land he owns. What’s worse, he’s notoriously afraid of his wife, so much so that even his own brothers look down on him.
In their 40 years of marriage, he has never called her by her name. In other families, it’s the wife who cooks for the husband and prepares his washbasin and footbath, but in their household, it’s the opposite. He does the farm work and then comes home to cook, wash clothes, and prepare the washbasin for her.
Once the meal is ready, he serves it to her. If the rice is too hard or too soft, or if the dishes are too salty or bland, she scolds him without mercy, using all kinds of vulgar and harsh words. If the clothes aren’t washed clean, she scolds him just the same.
After preparing the washbasin, he brings it to her, and she washes her face first, then he washes his.
Finally, he prepares the footbath, and she sits in a chair watching TV while he pours the water.
When the crops like wheat, rapeseed, and flax are harvested, he limps with his decades-old rheumatic legs, wearing a pair of mud-stained, broken liberation shoes, and shakily takes them to the market to sell. He uses the money to buy her new clothes and her favorite small cakes, while he only buys himself the cheapest pack of cigarettes. If he comes back late and hasn’t cooked in time, she scolds him fiercely.
One day, like usual, he took the ox to plow the field while she stayed at home. When he didn’t come back at noon, she got angry.
In the evening, he returned, covered in mud. She threw the cooking pot outside, blaming him for not coming back to make lunch. He said nothing, scooping a ladle of water from the water tank inside the house to wash his feet by the courtyard edge. She stood with her hands on her hips, looking domineering.
Suddenly, his two brothers emerged from their houses. The second brother pointed at him and cursed, calling him a coward for almost being trampled to death by a mad ox in the field but not daring to say a word at home. The third brother added, “What’s there to fear about that damn wife?” He spat on the ground and stomped on it. He got angry, threw the ladle aside, and rushed into the house.
Everyone felt a great sense of relief, thinking that this man had finally come to his senses and would fight back after so many years of oppression. Everyone speculated how severely he would beat her. But the result nearly made everyone drop their jaws.
He rushed in front of her, his hand raised high, the veins on his forehead bulging with anger. Everyone thought this woman was finished because that slap would be unimaginable. But in the end, his slap landed on his own face. Then he grabbed her into his arms. She had started crying when he rushed in, saying, “After all these years, you finally dare to hit me…”
Everyone was puzzled, including his granddaughter, about why he treasured such a domineering and unreasonable woman.
Later, she got sick, bedridden in the hospital and unable to speak. The family had prepared for her funeral, and everyone felt relieved for him.
Finally, this man, oppressed by this fierce woman all his life, was about to be freed. But he cried, weeping sadly and intensely like a child whose beloved toy had been taken away. He told them, “I know you all hate her and want her to die, but have you ever thought, if she dies, how will I live?”
“If she dies, how will I live?” How touching and romantic a sentence. Who would have thought such poetic words would come from the mouth of an uneducated farmer who never dated, read books, or traveled far? If I hadn’t seen and heard it myself, I wouldn’t have believed it.
He is my grandfather, and she is my grandmother.
After spending nearly all the family’s savings, grandmother was discharged from the hospital, still needing various Western and traditional medicines. Her habit of “abusing” grandfather didn’t change. If the food was poorly cooked, the clothes weren’t clean, or the wash water temperature was off, she still scolded him. Moreover, since she started taking all sorts of medications, her temper seemed even worse.
My mother and I secretly laughed at grandfather, “Grandma treats you so badly, why do you still cherish her?” Unexpectedly, grandfather blushed like a little boy, touched the back of his head, and shyly said, “I promised my mother to treat her well.” My mother and I fell silent. We exchanged a glance and then walked away.
“If you die, how will I live?”
Thank you for reading! ” Sitestorys “
