Unable to convince her son, Xiao Yun went downstairs, her steps heavy with frustration. In the living room, Meng Dujiang sat calmly, reading the newspaper. She dropped onto the sofa, seized the remote, and flicked through channels with restless fingers.
Without looking up, he asked, “Didn’t you get your work done?”
Her voice was sharp. “Your son’s temper is even more stubborn than yours. I don’t care anymore. I say a few words, and he talks back. I think he’s possessed by a demon.”
Meng Dujiang chuckled. “I told you not to throw cold water on him. It would backfire, but you didn’t believe me. Besides, we haven’t even met the girl yet, and you’re already opposing her. Isn’t that a bit unreasonable?”
“It’ll be too late to object after we meet her,” Xiao Yun snapped. “What can you tell about girls nowadays after just one or two meetings? Don’t feel sorry for your son. Look at the Xu family’s daughter-in-law. She’s from a scholarly family—both parents are professors. Pretty, well-educated. And what happened? She’s always stirring up trouble, attracting women outside, making chaos at home. Sister Liu complains to me every time. In the end, they had to send Binbin to the Tibet Military Region just to stop it. If we had such a girl in our family, you’d regret it.”
“Not all local girls are like that,” Meng Dujiang countered. “You’re generalizing.”
“I’m saying it’s better to take precautions,” Xiao Yun insisted. “Xizi is such a sensible child. Beautiful, well-bred. Our Heping is just stupid. Such a good girl right in front of him, and he doesn’t even know how to catch the moon when it’s closest to the water.”
Meng Dujiang laughed. “What moon to catch? Heping is not a monkey.”
“You still have the leisure to joke!” Xiao Yun’s anger flared. “You spoiled him. I told you to send him to military school, but you let him choose his own path. He stayed abroad, but you let him come back for graduate school. You’ve always indulged him. Just keep spoiling him—let’s see what becomes of him.”
“In the end, you’re just upset he didn’t choose Xizi,” Meng Dujiang said evenly. “She’s a good girl, but as the saying goes, a forced melon is not sweet.” Folding his newspaper, he added, “Besides, Qi Da isn’t necessarily a good match either.”
“Even if not the Ruan family’s child, there are so many comrades’ children—outstanding, well-matched. Heping could pick any one of them, and we’d have far less to worry about.”
“The boy is grown. He can make his own choices. In my opinion, it’s not appropriate to bring her home yet. Better to visit their school, ask him to bring her out. If it doesn’t work, we can persuade him.”
Xiao Yun stayed silent.
“Go upstairs,” Meng Dujiang urged. “Tell Heping we agreed to meet the girl first. Go, so he won’t lose sleep over this.”
“I’m not going,” Xiao Yun said coldly. “If he can’t sleep, so be it. We raised him for over twenty years, and now he fights us for a little girl. All our effort was wasted.”
Meng Dujiang sighed, half amused, half helpless. “Look at you—you’re more childish than your son.”
Despite her words, Xiao Yun eventually went upstairs. Standing before Heping, she said stiffly, “In a couple of days, when I have time, I’ll go to your school. You can ask her to come out and show her to me.”
Heping’s face lit up. “Mom, you’ll definitely like her.”
Later, back at school, he told Jiaqi.
Her eyes widened in panic. “Huh? Then can I run away?”
He glared at her, and she lowered her voice. “I’m scared.”
“What’s there to be afraid of? You’ll meet Mom sooner or later. Besides, I’m here for you.”
It was the weekend, and the dormitory was still asleep. Jiaqi rose early, washed her hair, and tried on clothes. One outfit didn’t feel right. Then another. Still wrong.
From her bed, Chang Yuanyuan peeked sleepily. “Are our little slingshots going to Diaoyutai to be simultaneous interpreters today? Why the fuss?”
Jiaqi groaned. “I wouldn’t be this nervous if I were interpreting at the State Guest House. But meeting Meng Heping’s mother? My calves are shaking.”
At once, Juanzi leapt up. “Oh, we’re meeting the in-laws! You have to dress up. Come on, take any of my clothes. Whatever you like.”
“You just love your Meng Heping so much you’re terrified of embarrassing him,” Chang Yuanyuan teased, rubbing her eyes. “Look at you—acting like the Party leaders are coming to see you.” She softened, offering advice. “Dress elegantly, quietly. Elders like that. I’ll lend you my new silk scarf—you’ll look incredibly ladylike.”
With the whole dorm pitching in, Jiaqi was finally ready—just as Meng Heping arrived.
Juanzi admired her in the mirror. “Perfect! Like this, you could meet not only his mother, but even the mother of the Spanish Crown Prince.”
Jiaqi laughed nervously.
In the car, Heping glanced at her and smiled. “You look so beautiful today.”
Her nerves lingered, but her lightly made-up face only made her eyes shine brighter, like two clear pools reflecting only him. He rarely saw her in a skirt this season, and he murmured, “You should dress like this more often. I like it.”
She blushed. “The dress is mine, but the scarf is Yuanyuan’s.”
“Don’t worry,” he said softly. “I’ll buy you one later.”
The road was long, and Jiaqi would always remember that Saturday in early summer. The locust trees along the street were heavy with white blossoms, their fragrance drifting like a soft veil on the breeze. The clusters of flowers looked like countless dove feathers scattered against the bright green leaves.
She and Meng Heping sat in the back seat of a taxi, his hand clasped firmly around hers. On the radio, the traffic DJ reported accidents and congestion at Xizhimen Interchange, advising detours around the Second Ring Road. The words blurred into the background, fragments of the city’s endless murmur—real, yet distant. The driver switched stations, and now love songs filled the car, one after another, all about heartbreak and separation. But Jiaqi’s heart was light, bubbling with happiness, like sunlight breaking through leaves. Tiny bubbles rose inside her, swelling until they made her feel both restless and blissful.
Heping never let go of her hand. Not once, until they stepped out of the car.
The compound loomed ahead, anonymous but imposing. No signs, only a house number and guards at the gate. Behind the high walls stretched endless trees, their canopies forming a shaded path. Heping explained softly, “Guesthouse. My mom is staying here this time.”
Jiaqi’s heels pinched her feet. Yuanyuan had taught her to put a Band-Aid on her heel, but every step still hurt. The early summer sun was fierce, and sweat dampened her back. Yet Heping’s hand in hers steadied her. Dust motes shimmered in the light, like gold powder scattered in the air. Through the trees, sunlight broke into countless specks, like golden butterflies resting on the black asphalt. Jiaqi felt dazed, as if those butterflies might suddenly take flight if she reached out.
Inside, Meng Heping’s mother was younger and more beautiful than Jiaqi had imagined. Jiaqi drew a deep breath, straightened her back, and introduced herself with confidence: “Hello, Auntie, I am You Jiaqi.”
“Please sit down, all of you.” Her tone was polite, her smile measured. She asked the waiter to pour tea.
The reception room was vast, the carpet soft and thick beneath their feet. Jiaqi’s heart pounded like a drum, but gradually she steadied herself. Each question came, and she answered carefully.
“Heping said you’re from Zhejiang?”
“Yes, I’m from Shaoxing, Zhejiang.”
The porcelain teacup in her hand released the fragrance of fine green tea.
“Is your last name You? Are you from downtown Shaoxing?”
“No, I’m from Dongpu Town.”
Heping interjected eagerly, “Mom, that’s where Huadiao wine is made. The scenery is beautiful—bridges, flowing water, homes like in Chen Yifei’s paintings.”
His mother ignored him. After a pause, she asked, “What do your parents do?”
Jiaqi noticed her fingers spinning the teacup lid, round and round, scratching the delicate porcelain unconsciously. A chill of unease crept into Jiaqi’s chest. Still, she answered truthfully: “My father works at the winery. My mother divorced him a long time ago, and I haven’t seen her since.”
“What’s your father’s name?”
“You Mingyuan.”
The room fell silent. Even the bird outside the window seemed to sing more clearly, its cry like a string of bells trembling in the air.
Something had gone wrong. Jiaqi didn’t know what, but she felt it instantly. The atmosphere thickened, heavy and suffocating.
“Mom,” Heping said quickly, “their divorce has nothing to do with Jiaqi. She was just a child. She’s innocent.”
“I know.” His mother set down her cup. Her expression was still polite, but her eyes had changed—colder, distant. Her voice carried that same polite chill. “Ms. You’s scarf is beautiful. If I’m not mistaken, it’s Hermès, this year’s new model. I didn’t know college students nowadays were so wealthy, wearing scarves worth thousands casually on the street.”
Jiaqi flushed. She hadn’t known. Heping rushed to explain, “Mom, she borrowed it from her roommate. She just wanted to look nice to meet you.”
“That’s even worse. Girls these days are vain. What you are is what you are. Mom hates deception the most.”
Jiaqi stood, bowing slightly. “Auntie, I was wrong. I only wanted to make a good impression, but I didn’t expect it to backfire. I’m sorry.”
“Forget it. You can go now.” His mother rubbed her temple. “I have things to do. Heping, take Miss You home. Then go straight to the Military Commission Guesthouse. Don’t be late.”
Heping opened his mouth, but Jiaqi tugged his sleeve gently. “Auntie, you rest. We’ll leave first.”
Outside, the wind stirred the locust trees. The radio forecast warned of a sandstorm in Inner Mongolia. Jiaqi smiled bitterly. The city around her was still bright, still calm, but she knew—like the butterfly in the Amazon stirring storms across the world—that even the smallest misstep could bring consequences she could never undo.
On the way back, Heping kissed her cheek. His lips were cool, like fresh lemons. “Jiaqi, you didn’t do anything wrong. Mom just misunderstood. I’ll convince her.”
She smiled, pretending not to care. But inside, she knew: his mother disliked her, perhaps even despised her. And nothing she did could change that.
That evening, Heping came to see her. She was still in the same clothes, the scarf returned to Yuanyuan. Her neck was bare, her collarbone delicate, her figure so thin it made him ache.
“Have you eaten?” he asked.
She hummed, but she hadn’t. Instead, she had spent the day scrubbing the dormitory—laundry, sheets, floors, windows—until her hands were wrinkled and raw. She couldn’t stop. If she stopped, the sadness would catch her.
At dusk, the sky turned velvet purple. The campus radio played My Love, its harmonies drifting through the air. Standing on a stool, she polished the windows until they gleamed, until they seemed not to exist at all.
Her face pressed against the cold glass, the scent of detergent lingering, the sky darkening.
And then—Meng Heping came.
She had always thought him tall, but today he seemed taller still—distant, unreachable. Even lifting her gaze to meet his felt difficult, as though he stood on some faraway height. His voice, too, seemed to come from a distance, softened by the wind. She forced a smile and listened as he said quietly,
“Come, I’ll take you somewhere.”
She followed without question. The wind rose, tugging at her long hair, chilling her skin, but she said nothing. He, too, remained silent.
From one avenue to another, through the east gate and out the west, they walked across the campus. His hand gripped hers tightly, almost painfully, as though he feared she might vanish if he let go. His fingers pressed so hard they hurt, until at last he stopped and said,
“We’re here.”
It was a small auditorium, the kind used for art department performances or rehearsals by the university troupe. She didn’t know how Meng Heping had gotten the key, but he led her inside.
The hall was dark. He flicked on a single aisle light, guided her to the center of the first row, and then disappeared backstage.
The aisle light went out. She sat alone in the quiet darkness. Then suddenly, the stage blazed to life. Spotlights burst open, casting a great circular halo—like a full moon suspended in silver light. At its center stood a black piano, gleaming.
From the shadows, he emerged. Slowly, he stepped into the halo and sat before the piano. Jiaqi had never known he could play, let alone play like this.
His fingers touched the keys, and the hall filled with the strains of The Red Mountain Dandan Flowers Are Blooming Brilliantly. She had never imagined this folk song could be reborn as a piano piece.
At first, the music was gentle, like a spring breeze drifting across the Loess Plateau, the sky high and clear, tender green just beginning to stir. Then the melody swelled, wave upon wave of joy, each note rising higher than the last. The keys danced beneath his hands, and she saw in her mind’s eye safflowers bursting into bloom across the ravines—petals blazing crimson, crowding together in a sea of fire. The blossoms surged like a living tide, burning from earth to sky, a vast ocean of red, fervent as flame.
She forgot technique, forgot fingering. The stage itself seemed to drift like a small boat on a river of falling petals, and she sat alone, gazing at a dream made real.
The music softened again, flowing like clouds across a boundless sky, until only a single safflower remained—delicate, vibrant, swaying gently in the valley wind.
When the final note faded, silence lingered. Only after a long pause did she remember to clap.
Her applause cracked through the emptiness, echoing in the hollow hall. He rose, smiled, and bowed with the grace of a true performer.
The space between them felt vast. She raised her voice, smiling: “You can actually play the piano—how come I didn’t even know that?”
From the center of the stage, he lifted his voice to reach her: “I have so many more strengths.”
She laughed softly. “I know, I know.”
Then, louder, his voice carried across the empty hall: “Jiaqi, will you marry me?”
She would never forget that moment. Never forget that little auditorium. She stood in the inky dark below the stage, the melody still echoing in her ears. Before her, he stood at the center of all light, every line of his face illuminated, his figure almost unreal beneath the blazing spotlight. He seemed dreamlike, too beautiful to belong to reality.
And again, he asked her, clear and unwavering:
“Jiaqi, will you marry me?”
Previous/Next
.jpeg)
