The first sound Lily remembered wasn't her name, or her mother's voice.It was the voice of a man reading the news—in crisp Cantonese, from the television screen.It was the late-night broadcast from Hong Kong: ATV, TVB Jade, sometimes with a short burst of advertisements in between.And always, the familiar weather segment at the end, where a cartoon figure would stroll across the screen, opening a tiny umbrella or shading its eyes from a drawn sun—gentle, whimsical, and oddly reassuring.
She lay in a crib tucked behind the family's round dining table, watching the soft flicker of light from beneath the wooden edge.In front of her, seated beneath a long fluorescent tube light embedded near the ceiling, was a man in his early twenties.He didn't move.His back faced her, still and silent, eyes fixed on the television.That was her father.
Though young, his back bore a heaviness that she couldn't yet understand—calm, tired, a little worn, like someone who had spent the day carrying something invisible.He didn't look back at her, didn't say a word.But there was no coldness in that silence.Only the kind of distance that comes from not knowing what to say to a life so new.
In those years, television was not merely entertainment—it was a portal.China was still finding its breath after the Cultural Revolution, still brushing red dust off its shoulders.Reform and opening-up had begun, but the cultural fields remained barren.People craved more than slogans. They longed for color, for rhythm, for stories that weren't only about sacrifice.
Hong Kong, just across the water but under British rule, offered a glimpse into another world.Its programs were lively, fast-paced, human.There were game shows, variety hours, comedies, dramas, music performances—a full spectrum of human expression that felt both shocking and beautiful to the inland eye.
Most of us in Guangdong didn't speak Mandarin fluently, but we understood Cantonese perfectly.So we turned our antennas toward Hong Kong and tuned in night after night.TVB and ATV weren't just channels—they were lifelines, feeding laughter, gossip, aspiration, and fantasy into living rooms otherwise quiet and plain.
For the young, it was a window to the modern world.For the old, it was a reminder that the world had always been bigger than they were told.
Father's Evening, from His Eye
At twenty-something, he had already stopped being a boy.
He was a husband, a father, and a son—but he hadn't yet become a man by choice.He had become one by obligation.
The square television in front of him wasn't just a screen.It was his wife's dowry, one of the "Three Must-Haves" of the time—a bicycle, a sewing machine, and a TV set.Its twin antennae rose like awkward branches, catching signals from across the sea.
He sat on a round wooden stool with long iron legs, shoulders leaning slightly forward, eyes fixed on the glowing box.Behind him, his newborn child stirred in a crib.He would glance back now and then.Was the baby crying? No.Breathing? Yes.Alive? Still.That was enough for now.
He didn't know what to do with a baby.A creature that cried, ate, and made a mess.He had no language for care, no instinct for intimacy.So he turned back to the television—because it was easier.
It showed him Hong Kong.And Hong Kong showed him a version of life he never thought possible.
There, old people had pensions. Children went to school and knew why.Not just to earn money, but to find futures.There, jobs paid ten times what they paid in Guangdong.Not in rice, but in dignity.
There, people laughed openly.They sang karaoke, got massages, ate in neon-lit restaurants.They weren't ashamed to want joy.They didn't whisper when they said they wanted more.
And here he was—in a place still recovering from revolution,where ambition was silent, and desire was a kind of guilt.Where fun was frowned upon,and a father was expected to know everything before he had the chance to become anything.
Every evening, for half an hour, he sat there not as a father, or a son, but simply as a young man—quietly mourning the boy he never had time to be.
Father's Silent Monologue
He was too young to think it through.Marriage. A child. A home.They weren't questions, just checkpoints.Milestones set by people who had also never asked why.
By the time he even thought to wonder what it all meant,he was already a father.Already seated in this life.
The baby—his daughter—was small and soft and helpless.She cried, she ate, she soiled her diapers.That was her job.His job was everything else.
He didn't hate it.He just didn't understand how long it would last,or what it would cost him in dreams he never named.
Sometimes he asked himself, silently,"Was there another way?"
Maybe.But he had seen what happened to people who tried to live differently.They were talked about.Pushed out.Quietly erased.
So even if he couldn't yet explain it,he knew this must be the right path.Because it was the only one that didn't punish you for walking it.
And so he walked.Without looking up.Without stopping.
First Feeling of Warmth
Lily had been in the world for less than a month,but her soul was much older.
She didn't remember everything,but she remembered enough—a long, quiet life before this one,where a few people mattered deeply,and love was always complicated.
She had told herself not to forget.Not this time.
And then someone entered the room.
A woman dressed in simple clothes—a soft-collared tunic like a casual Zhongshan suit,loose gray trousers that older women often wore,clean, neat, quiet.
She didn't speak loudly,but her presence broke the silence.She picked Lily up gently,checked the bottle,began to feed her.
It was the first time Lily felt something beyond function.This was attention.This was concern.The woman kept murmuring softly,not to fill the air,but to comfort the space between breaths.
The young man—her father—looked up, startled by the shift.He moved toward them, awkward but grateful.
Lily didn't know her name yet.But later, she would.
She was her grandmother.
From the Grandmother's Eyes
She knew her son was still a child in many ways.He had always been quiet, always kept things to himself.Now, suddenly, there was a baby.And his wife—still weak from the birth—had been rushed to the hospital after a reaction to the injections.So it fell to her.
Every day she made the trip to his new home.The baby was tiny, fragile, red-faced from crying.But she wasn't afraid.She had raised three children of her own—two boys and a girl—and in her hands, an infant was not a burden.It was a rhythm she remembered well.
She moved through the room with quiet purpose.The bottles were where they should be.She didn't need to bring anything.Everything was already there.
This baby—her son's daughter—was the first of the next generation.A girl.She hadn't expected that.But she held no complaints.
There would be time.
And now that she held the child in her arms—warm, soft, and stubbornly alive—a quiet joy rose in her chest.This little one was a beginning.Not just for the family, but for her, too.
She fed, she cleaned, she held, she watched.Not out of duty,but out of something deeper—a love that had grown roots long ago,and now bloomed again, in her arms.
Introduction of Grandmother
Lily's grandmother was born and raised in Zhaoqing, a quiet inland city in Guangdong province.Later, she followed her family as they moved to Zhongshan, a growing industrial town not far from the coast, where Lily would eventually be born.
She was a woman shaped by the rhythms of labor and resilience.She was diligent, practical, sincere—and kind, though she rarely spoke of kindness.She helped because help was needed, not because she expected recognition.
There was no extravagance in her.She wore the same kind of outfit every day: a long-sleeved tunic shirt and loose, wide-legged trousers, usually in shades of gray or dark blue.It was the modern adaptation of the Zhongshan suit, a traditional Chinese outfit that had once been promoted as a symbol of discipline and national unity.Named after Sun Yat-sen (Sun Zhongshan), the founding father of modern China, the Zhongshan suit was plain in appearance but carried a deep cultural message—modesty, order, and collective dignity.For men, it had a stiff collar and four square pockets.For women like Lily's grandmother, it was softened slightly, but never flashy.There were no bright patterns, no frills.Her clothing was a quiet declaration: she belonged to a generation of Chinese women who valued usefulness over beauty, effort over ornament.
She had raised three children—two sons and a daughter—on little more than her hands, her back, and her belief that life would improve if you simply did what needed to be done.
She was not outspoken.She was not modern, in the way the world defines modern.But she was steady.And in times of difficulty, steadiness was worth more than wisdom.
"Her mother is coming back tomorrow."
She lay in the crib, watching her father watching television.
Her newborn body was still, but her mind wasn't.Somewhere deep within, something stirred—a voice without words, an ancient self murmuring:Don't forget.Don't forget the past life.The faces. The feelings. The bonds.Don't let them fade.Not again.
And then the door opened.
Her grandmother entered the room, not with ceremony, but with purpose.She picked the baby up gently, confidently, as if her arms had long remembered the weight of small lives.She fed her, changed her, held her with a steadiness shaped by decades of repetition—no fuss, no hesitations, no waste of motion.
She was a woman of the countryside, a generation that didn't narrate their love,but performed it through movement—clean, necessary, tireless.
Her father stood nearby.Now that his mother was here, he couldn't just keep sitting in front of the television.Not in front of her.
In that time, in China, filial piety wasn't a conversation.It was a fact—unspoken but unquestioned.A mother's presence meant reverence.And a son's stillness was expected to reflect it.
Just before she left, the grandmother held Lily close, her arm gently supporting the infant's soft back.She paused for a moment—longer than necessary.Her eyes lingered not on the child's face, but somewhere just above it, as if gazing at a life still unfolding.
Then she said it—softly, almost as if speaking to herself,but with a tenderness so deep it pierced through time:
"Her mother is coming back tomorrow."
There was no cheer in her voice, nor pity.Only a quiet ache, and something else—an ancient, womanly knowing that a newborn should not go too long without her mother.A kind of grief not for herself,but for what Lily had not yet realized she was missing.
It wasn't meant to be remembered.But it was.
Even after thirty years, the words remained.Not because of what was said,but because of how it was said—like a small blessing wrapped in sorrow, a hope handed down through generations of women who knew what it meant to hold, and then let go.
She couldn't name what had just stirred inside her—only that something had shifted.Like a warmth that passed through the skin, a quiet gravity pulling her toward a presence she hadn't yet met.
It wasn't understanding.It wasn't memory.It was instinct, or perhaps something older than that—a recognition without reason.
And though she couldn't know what it meant, the space that had been silent inside her suddenly longed to be filled.
Not every newborn feels it.Not every soul carries that ache.But Lily did.