A Dream of Nanke (Part 2)

Liguang gave birth.

A girl, five pounds and seven ounces, with a cry so loud it seemed to tear the roof off the delivery room. When the nurse brought her out, my hands were shaking so much I could barely hold her.

Liguang lay on the hospital bed, her hair soaked with sweat and clinging to her temples. She looked pale, but she was smiling like a child.

"Aqi, look at her," she said in a hoarse voice. "She has my eyes."

It was true. Those eyes hadn't fully opened yet, but you could faintly see that the left eye was lighter and the right eye was darker—she had inherited her mother's heterochromia.

I gently placed my finger in the baby's palm, and she immediately gripped it tight.

"She's so small," I said, my throat tightening.

"She'll grow up," Liguang said softly, "into a little girl who clings to you just like I do."

We named her Fang Xing. It came from Liguang's favorite word, "Xingxing" (stars).

At night, I watched over the incubator while Liguang took her medicine and fell asleep. At three in the morning, the nurse said I could bring the baby to her mother for nursing. Clumsily supporting that soft little bundle of life, I walked over to Liguang's bed.

She woke up and took the baby with movements so natural it looked as if she had practiced them a thousand times. The ties of her nursing gown were undone, and the baby instinctively sought her out. In that moment, I suddenly wanted to cry.

"Aqi," Liguang looked up at me. "Come here."

I sat on the edge of the bed, and she rested her head on my shoulder. We watched the little thing in her arms suckle vigorously, while the rain pattered against the window outside.

"Did it hurt?" I asked about the delivery.

"It did," she said honestly. "But thinking about her waiting for me made it hurt less."

She paused and added in a whisper, "Besides, this way, Aqi and I will have a connection that can never be severed."

I kissed her sweat-dampened temples.

The baby was full and let out a tiny burp.

Liguang gently patted her back, humming a wordless tune—the same one she had hummed while keeping watch in my living room when I had a fever as a child.

"Will she be happy?" I asked.

"She will," Liguang said with certainty. "Because we will love her with all our lives."

She looked at me, her crimson right eye as gentle as candlelight under the night lamp.

"Just like how I love Aqi."

...

...

Two in the morning.

Xingxing let out her fifth round of crying from the next room. I struggled to get up, but Liguang was already out of bed before me.

"You sleep, I'll go," she said, her voice thick with sleep.

"We're taking shifts," I pulled her back. "You did it last night."

In the nursery, Xingxing's little face was red from crying. Checked the diaper—dry. Felt her forehead—no fever. Offered the freshly mixed formula—she turned her head away in refusal.

"She just wants to be held," Liguang said. I didn't know when she had followed me in, but she wrapped her arms around my waist from behind. "Give her to me."

She took the baby, gently rocking her and humming that familiar tune. The crying gradually weakened, turning into sobs, and finally, there was only the sound of even breathing.

But the moment she was put down, her eyes snapped open, her mouth puckered, and getting ready—

"Waaah!"

After the third failed attempt, the two of us slumped on the nursery rug, holding the baby. The moonlight shone through the window, illuminating Liguang's exhausted but smiling face.

"Aqi, remember when we used to stay up all night playing video games?"

"I remember," I smiled bitterly. "Back then, dawn felt like a punishment. Now, it's a lifesaver."

Xingxing finally fell into a deep sleep in her arms. Liguang looked down at our daughter, her fingers gently combing through the sparse baby hair.

"She has your temper," she said. "Stubborn. Once she sets her mind on something, she won't let go."

"She's clearly like you," I countered. "Clingy. She won't sleep unless she's held."

We looked at each other and smiled, then quickly covered our mouths, afraid of waking the little tyrant who had just fallen asleep.

At three-thirty in the morning, we decided to "cheat"—we moved the crib into the master bedroom.

Xingxing slept in the middle, one hand clutching my finger and the other gripping the corner of Liguang's shirt.

"She should feel secure now, right?" I whispered.

"Mhm," Liguang looked at our daughter from her side. "Actually... I feel secure too."

Her gaze shifted from the baby's face to mine.

"Aqi, we are a real family of three now."

"Always," I said.

"Always," she repeated, closing her eyes.

Moonlight mixed with the glow of the snow, covering the bed. Two adults and a child squeezed onto a bed that wasn't exactly spacious, their breathing gradually syncing.

I suddenly felt that this sleepless night was perhaps also a part of forever.

...

...

On Xingxing's fourth birthday, Liguang told me, "Aqi, I'm pregnant."

I was squatting down, untying the bow on our daughter's gift box. My hand trembled, and the ribbon pulled into a dead knot.

"It's a boy this time," Liguang said, touching her still-flat stomach, her eyes sparkling. "I can feel it."

Her second pregnancy was much easier. She had less morning sickness, a good appetite, and could even chase Xingxing around the yard to feed her.

Instead, it was Xingxing who felt a sense of crisis. She stuck to Liguang's belly all day, talking to it: "Little brother, I'm your big sister. You have to listen to me, okay?"

Liguang would always gently pat her daughter's head. "Xingxing will be the best big sister in the world."

The delivery, however, was more difficult than the first. The baby was in the wrong position, so a natural birth turned into a C-section.

When I signed the surgery consent form, my hands shook so much I couldn't write my name properly. Before Liguang was wheeled into the operating room, she grabbed my hand.

"Aqi, just in case..."

"There is no 'in case'!" I interrupted her.

She smiled. "I mean, just in case it's a little sister, you have to love her too."

"Of course!"

Two hours later, the nurse brought out a wrinkled little guy. It really was a boy.

I went to see Liguang immediately. The anesthesia hadn't completely worn off, and her eyes were unfocused, but she insisted on asking, "Is the baby... healthy?"

"Healthy, incredibly healthy," I pressed my face against her cold cheek. "Liguang, thank you."

"What are you thanking me for?" she closed her eyes. "Aqi gave him to me."

We named our son Fang Chen. Connected with his sister's name, it meant "stars" (Xingchen).

On the day we left the hospital, I held my son in one arm and held my daughter's hand with the other.

Liguang walked slowly in front, the setting sun stretching her shadow long. She suddenly turned back.

"Aqi, our family is complete."

"Yeah."

"Four people, eating at one table, sleeping in one house," she walked back and took our son. "This is enough, right?"

"It's enough," I said.

She stood on her tiptoes to kiss me, while Xingxing covered her eyes and giggled beside us.

In that moment, I thought, this is probably what perfection looks like.

...

...

Xingxing started her first year of elementary school.

In the morning, she spent half an hour picking out clothes in front of her closet, eventually putting on the school uniform Liguang had ironed late the night before.

A white shirt, a plaid skirt, and a red bow. On her back was the starry-sky patterned backpack she had chosen herself.

"Mom, do I look pretty?" she twirled in front of the mirror.

"You look beautiful," Liguang squatted down to help adjust her collar. "Like a little princess."

"What do you think, Dad?"

"You look like your mom when she was little," I told the truth. "Just with a different hair color."

When we dropped her off at the school gate, she suddenly refused to let go.

"Mom, I don't want to go to school..." she pouted.

Liguang crouched down, looking her daughter in the eye. "Xingxing, there are lots of little friends at school. You can play together and learn new things together."

"But I want to be with Mom..."

"Mommy will miss Xingxing too," Liguang said gently, "but Xingxing is growing up, and you need to go see the world that Mommy hasn't seen with you."

She leaned in and whispered something into her daughter's ear. Xingxing blinked, finally let go of her hand, and walked into the school gates, looking back with every step.

On the way home, Liguang remained silent.

"What did you say to her?" I asked.

"I said," she looked out the car window at the fleeting sycamore trees, "'Help Mommy see if school is fun, and come back to tell Mommy about it.'"

She paused, her voice very soft:

"Aqi, am I being too selfish? I should be encouraging her to be independent, but I'm still tying her to my side like this."

I held her hand. "All parents are like this."

"Are they..." She looked down at our clasped hands. "I'm just... so afraid that one day she won't need me anymore. She is... my little Xingxing."

At three in the afternoon, we waited at the school gate half an hour early. When the dismissal bell rang, the children poured out. Xingxing saw us, her eyes lighting up, and she sprinted over to throw herself into Liguang's arms.

"Mommy! School is so fun! I made three friends!"

Liguang hugged her daughter tightly, holding her for a long time.

In the car ride home, Xingxing chattered away about what she saw and heard today. Liguang just smiled and listened, her fingers unconsciously twirling her daughter's hair.

While being coaxed to sleep that night, Xingxing suddenly said, "Mommy, I missed you twelve times today."

"That many?"

"Yeah, every time I missed you, I counted," our daughter closed her eyes sleepily. "Tomorrow I'll try hard to miss you a few times less..."

Liguang leaned over and kissed her daughter's forehead:

"It's okay, Mommy missed you a lot of times too. We're even."

Closing the door, Liguang leaned against my shoulder.

"Aqi, she's growing up."

"Yeah."

"One day, she'll have her own secrets, her own world, and she won't tell me everything anymore."

"That's a good thing."

"I know," she sighed, "but it hurts right here."

She took my hand and pressed it against her heart.

I held her tight, just like she held me tight many years ago.

The moon outside the window was very round, like someone's gentle eyes.

...

...

Mother passed away.

A heart attack. She went in her sleep and didn't suffer. Father said she was watching videos of Xingxing and Chenchen when they were little right before she went to bed.

At the funeral, Liguang held my hand the entire time.

She wore a black dress, her silver hair pulled back into an elegant bun—Mother had taught her that before she died, saying "it makes you look mature."

Xingxing was already a young woman, holding an umbrella and standing beside my father. Chenchen held his grandmother's portrait, his back perfectly straight.

The rain hit the umbrellas with a loud sound.

On the night of the wake, Father sat alone in front of Mother's memorial. We urged him to go to sleep, but he shook his head. "Let me keep her company a little longer. There won't be another chance."

At three in the morning, Liguang cooked some porridge and brought it over. Father took it and suddenly said, "Xiaoguang, thank you."

"Dad..."

"Really," the old man's eyes were red. "Aqi marrying you was the greatest blessing of his life."

Liguang crouched down and held the old man's hand. "I'm the blessed one, to have met such a wonderful mother, and such a wonderful father like you."

After returning from the burial, Liguang brought out the photo albums. Inside were pictures of her and Mother—the mother-in-law and daughter-in-law making dumplings in the kitchen, watering flowers on the balcony, and knitting sweaters together wearing reading glasses.

"The first dish Mom taught me to make was braised pork," Liguang's fingers traced over the photo. "She said, 'Aqi loves this the most, you have to learn it.'"

"She also said," I chimed in, "'That boy has a stubborn temper, please bear with him.'"

We looked at each other and smiled bitterly.

During the night, Liguang suddenly woke up from a dream and held me tightly.

"Aqi."

"I'm here."

"Will you... suddenly leave me too?" Her voice was trembling.

"No," I patted her back. "I promised to stay with you for a lifetime."

"But Mom promised Dad too..."

I was left speechless.

She cried, her tears soaking my pajamas. "I don't want you to die... I don't want to be alone..."

That night she sobbed like a little girl, and I held her until the sky turned pale.

For the first time, death lay so concretely between us.

It wasn't a bad ending in a game, nor an imagined fear. It was a real stopped heartbeat; it was a voice that could never be heard again.

After the first seven days of mourning for Mother, Liguang started checking my blood pressure every morning and watching me take my vitamins every night.

She no longer said "forever."

Instead, she said "tomorrow."

"Aqi, what do you want to eat tomorrow morning?"

"Aqi, tomorrow is the weekend. Let's take the kids to the park."

"Aqi, tomorrow..."

She clung to every "tomorrow" like a drowning person clutching at a straw.

And I finally understood—within the promise of "forever," the greatest luxury...

Is actually tomorrow.