It was a normal summer morning.
I woke up around noon. Sunlight peeked through the yellow curtains, casting long, golden streaks across the room. The light warmed everything it touched. Toys, furniture, books – all stacked up against the faded yellow wallpaper. School wouldn’t start for a long time. Summer holidays had begun, and the threat of homework still felt far enough away to ignore. There was time. All I needed to do was enjoy the long, warm days. Nothing else really mattered.
I swung my legs over the bed and set both feet on the beige, wooden floor. It always felt comfortably cool in the mornings. Mother, of course, insisted I wear slippers. My slippers, though, had long since faded and flattened, more gray than blue now. She would give me 10 RMB to buy a new pair from the shop downstairs. I used it to buy candy instead. Somehow, she always found out, and I’d be banned from watching TV for a week.
I changed and stepped out of my room. The living room was small, but just big enough for a couch and an old, boxy television. The TV was crooked and had to be smacked a few times before it worked properly. Father said we needed a new one, but Mother always waved it off.
“It’s not like it doesn’t work. And besides, Yan needs a better environment to study.”
She was always talking about studying. When she was out at the karaoke place or playing mahjong with the neighbors, she would still leave notes about finishing my math problems. Sometimes, when all my friends were busy, I’d ask if I could go with her. She always refused.
“You’re too young,” she said. “Now go finish your homework.”
So I stayed home and read comics on the old couch. It was just big enough to lie on comfortably while watching TV with my father. My father was always good to me. Once a week he would come home with some kind of sweet, or toy, or sometimes take-out food. My mother would always side-eye him and scolded him for wasting money on unhealthy junk.
I wish things had stayed that way. I never really noticed change in my life then, just that Father brought in less toys and cheaper sweets each week. I tried to complain to Father, but I don’t think he understood that the watermelon candy, although more expensive, tastes way better than the taro milk candy.
Father gave me a tired smile and patted my head.
“乖,” he said softly. Be good.
That was when I knew not to argue.
At night, when my mother thinks that I have already fallen asleep, she quarrels with my father. Through the crack of the ajar door, I see my father slumped on the couch, the faint light making his wrinkles seem deeper, like those of an old man. Mother bickered with Father over the gush of running water, her voice mingling with the clanking sound of dishes as she stacked them. Father would turn on the television. The familiar drone of CCTV news rang. “Olympics soon,” “Economy decline,” “Money.” Words that blurred into a lullaby, dragging me into sleep.
Mother started talking more. About jobs, housing prices, my future. She never said it directly, but I understood. Father began coming home late. Then later. The sweets stopped. The toys stopped. So did the quiet afternoons watching TV together.
I filled the time reading paperback novels from the little bookstore below our building. My friends were busy with tutoring, ping-pong lessons, and family trips. The books kept me company when they did not. Mother never commented on the books, though I always had a feeling that she wanted to tell me to stop reading silly writing. I guess she felt that she was hard enough on me already.
By the end of May, Beijing was buzzing with some bigger news. The Olympics were to be held right here – in my hometown.
Everyone talked about it. Tickets were nearly impossible to get hold of, but even just watching from home felt important. It was as if the whole country was holding its breath together.
I wasn’t quite sure what it all meant, but that summer was truly different. I imagine years later, when I have finally grown to be an adult, I might look back at my childhood, and remark upon how peaceful these memories were. These memories belonged to a child just waking up — unaware that everything was already beginning to change.
Writer – Cynthia Zheng
Editor – Olivia Hautler
Artist –Angela Wang
–May 2025–
Leave a Reply