Chapter 1 — A Divorced Woman
1093 Words
In July 1988, Chen Meilan was already a divorced woman.
In Chen Family Village, that single fact was enough to define a person.
The sun was sinking slowly behind the millet fields, casting long shadows across the dirt road that led back from the eastern plots. The air was thick with the smell of dust, ripe grain, and livestock—an ordinary summer evening, the kind that blurred into hundreds of others.
Chen Meilan walked steadily, a half-filled basket of millet hanging from her arm. Her steps were unhurried, but not relaxed. Years of farm work had shaped her posture: back straight, shoulders squared, eyes forward.
Beside her, her daughter skipped in and out of the tall stalks, chasing butterflies that fluttered just beyond reach.
“Slow down,” Chen Meilan said without turning her head.
“I’m not running,” the child protested, breathless. “They’re faster than me.”
Hope—she had started calling her that only recently—laughed and darted forward again, arms flailing. She didn’t catch a single butterfly, but by the time she returned, her clothes were dusted with soft millet fluff. Her face was flushed red by the sun, her dark hair tangled with grain spikes and wild grass.
She looked clumsy.
She looked alive.
She looked heartbreakingly small.
Chen Meilan stopped walking and reached out, brushing the tangles free with her fingers.
“Careful,” she said quietly. “You’ll poke yourself.”
Hope tilted her head. “Does it hurt?”
“Yes.”
“Like when you cook?”
Chen Meilan paused for half a second. Then she nodded. “Like that.”
Hope seemed satisfied with the answer.
They resumed walking.
Ahead, smoke curled lazily from kitchen chimneys. Cows and sheep were being herded back into their pens, bells clinking faintly. Men stood at the edges of the road, wiping sweat from their necks, talking loudly about harvest yields and market prices.
As Chen Meilan passed, several of them nodded or greeted her.
Their smiles were polite.
Too polite.
Others said nothing at all. Their eyes lingered—not boldly, but long enough to be noticed. Long enough to weigh, to assess.
Chen Meilan kept her gaze fixed ahead.
She noticed everything.
Chen Family Village lay less than twenty kilometers from the county town, close enough to hear rumors early, far enough to escape consequences. There were more men than women here—always had been.
A young woman without a husband was never invisible.
A divorced woman with a child was something else entirely.
Behind her back, the whispers had never stopped.
“She’s divorced already, and still so young.”
“Heard she’s planning to marry again.”
“That one? Who’d want her?”
“Well, someone with sons, probably.”
“Being a stepmother isn’t easy.”
“And she only has a daughter.”
Hope’s name hadn’t been given lightly.
At birth, she had been called Zhaodi—a name that meant calling for a younger brother. It was a common name, practical, almost casual. A wish disguised as a child.
Chen Meilan had never liked it.
After the divorce, after everything that followed, she changed it quietly. No ceremony. No announcement.
Hope.
A word she had once thought foolish.
Now, it felt necessary.
When they reached the house, Chen Meilan set the basket down and washed the millet in a wooden basin. Her movements were practiced, economical. The rhythm calmed her.
Hope crouched nearby, watching intently.
“Can I help?”
“You can watch.”
“I’m good at watching.”
“I know.”
The stove crackled softly as the cakes began to cook. The smell of warm grain filled the room.
For a brief moment, the world felt contained. Manageable.
Then raised voices shattered the calm.
Water splashed across the floor.
Chen Meilan turned.
Hope was standing near the doorway, face red, fists clenched. A boy from the extended family stood opposite her, taller by a head, his foot planted beside an overturned bucket.
“Girls are useless anyway!” he shouted. “That’s why your parents got divorced!”
Hope’s eyes filled instantly. “That’s not true!”
Before Chen Meilan could step forward, a woman rushed in from the yard, her expression sharp with irritation.
“What’s all this noise?” she snapped. “Can’t you even teach your child properly?”
Chen Meilan moved without hesitation, pulling Hope behind her.
“Watch your words,” she said, her voice cold. “Children repeat what adults say. If something sounds ugly, it didn’t come from her.”
The woman stiffened. Clearly, she hadn’t expected resistance.
There was an awkward pause.
Then she scoffed. “Fine. Raise her however you like.”
She grabbed the boy by the arm and left.
The room fell quiet again.
Chen Meilan knelt and examined Hope carefully. “Are you hurt?”
Hope shook her head, biting her lip. “Mom…”
“Yes?”
“…Am I really the reason you got divorced?”
The question landed softly.
It still hurt.
“No,” Chen Meilan said immediately. “Never think that.”
Hope stared at the floor. “They say it a lot.”
Chen Meilan didn’t answer right away. She pulled her daughter into her arms instead.
That night, they ate millet cakes by the dim glow of a kerosene lamp. The cakes were coarse, uneven, nothing special. Hope ate with obvious enthusiasm, crumbs sticking to her lips.
Watching her, Chen Meilan’s thoughts drifted.
In her previous life, she had been quiet.
Too quiet.
She had accepted the divorce without protest, even though it had never been about a daughter. It had been about control. About hands raised in anger. About walls punched, and once—a foot that struck too close to Hope.
She had believed silence was safety.
She had been wrong.
This time, she would not make the same mistakes.
The courtyard house on the outskirts of the county—the one her ex-husband had left behind—was hers by right. But rights meant nothing without action.
Tomorrow, she would go to the county office.
Tomorrow, she would begin again.
Chen Meilan broke a piece of cake and placed it in Hope’s hand.
“Eat,” she said gently. “No matter what happens, I’m here.”
Hope nodded and smiled.
In the quiet glow of the lamp, bitterness and warmth settled together between them.
And for the first time, Chen Meilan felt something close to resolve.
- Writer
