By Yang Yang, United States
When I was three years old, my father passed away. At that time, my mother had just given birth to my younger brother, and my grandma, owing to superstition, said that it was my mother and younger brother who had caused my father’s death. For lack of a better option, mom had to take my younger brother to her father’s house to live, so from the start of my earliest memories I was living together with my grandpa and grandma. Although my grandpa and grandma treated me well, I still felt lonely and really wanted to be together with my mom and little brother. I longed for the same kind of motherly love that other kids received. Really, what I was asking for wasn’t much—all I wanted was a true family, a mother who loved me dearly, who could share her true feelings with me. But even this small ask turned into an extravagant hope, as I was only able to see my mom on the weekends. Whenever I had trouble at school, mom was never there by my side either; I was like a small patch of grass by the side of the road that nobody showed any interest in. Over time, I became very self-abased, I held everything back in my heart and was unable to take the initiative to interact with others. When I was 16, some people in my village went abroad for work, and the idea tempted me. I thought to myself: My situation at home isn’t very good. If I were to go abroad, then I could earn my own living, and even give some of my earnings to my family. That way I could help my family live a little better.
