Chapter One: Childhood Memories

When you hold this book in your hands, I wish to speak to those parents who have already divorced, or who have not yet parted ways. You may believe that marriage is a matter of personal freedom, a choice to be made and unmade at will—and perhaps you are not wrong. Yet, it may never occur to you that the failure of a marriage is, in fact, a kind of sin. Should the day come when your marriage ends, have you ever considered that your child will become the casualty of your choices? How will your child’s life be shaped by this?

Will your child’s character become warped?
How arduous will your child’s future be?
What emotions will linger between parent and child?
And what path will your child choose? Where will their life lead?

I am a child of divorce, growing up with a succession of stepmothers, left behind as a so-called “left-behind child,” enduring every imaginable hardship, descending into depths you would never dream of. For thirty-five years—eight of them behind bars, two spent begging, ten left to fend for myself, five years struggling to survive, and ten years hustling—I have tasted bitterness, difficulty, despair, rage, resignation, deformity, and perversion beyond your imagining.

I dare say that divorce is a sin, and the child carries this original sin. From the day you leave, this sin becomes unforgivable, irreparable. Your child will bear all the consequences, wounds that can never be healed, blood and tears that can neither be wiped away nor forgotten.

In May 1989, I was born in a remote northern mountain village, a small outlying town. My first cries announced the beginning of this absurd, farcical life—a family of generations of farmers, a foolish father, a naive mother, and then me, brimming with mischief. From maggot to moth, I have experienced the vilest things, swallowed the bitterest medicine, tasted sweet candy, played the villain, and donned the mantle of hero. In good times, I was admired by all; in bad, despised even by dogs. “Absurd” barely scratches the surface. To this day, many secrets remain buried in my heart. Why not speak of them? Because even I find them revolting. Let me express it in verse:

Born to poverty and hardship, yet dared defy the heavens to change fate.
Scaled mountains, crossed seas, entered northern prisons—tears soaking my collar at every backward glance.

I remember, thirty-five years ago, the winter in the northeast was especially frigid—how cold, you ask? To use the outhouse, you had thirty seconds; any longer, and your backside would be numb and purple with frost. You took a stick along to keep your waste from freezing to you. Even the local dogs avoided the outhouse in winter, no matter how you dragged them—too cold, too hard, and nothing warm to eat. Everywhere was snow and ice. Within an hour of snowfall, you could walk on the snow without sinking in. But if there was snow, you couldn’t leave the house; you’d be like a field mouse, digging tunnels to get out, then shoveling a path to the road, all the family working together—shovels, brooms, and all. After a day’s work, if you had a path through the yard and could reach the door, you counted yourself lucky, a true triumph.

The countryside’s homes were thatched mud huts, wooden shacks. If you had even a single brick wall, you were considered wealthy. Our yard was spacious, with gardens front and back, the house in the middle, barns to the side, the outhouse behind or in a corner. At the gate, there was a well with a pump—you pressed down to draw water. In the garden, piles of straw stood ready for cooking and heating, all from our own crops or scavenged sticks, cow dung, rice straw, rotten wood—whatever we could find.

When I was about three months old, our house caught fire again one night, as did several others nearby—a night of sorrow for many families.

Around one in the morning, banging came at the door. “Liu San! Liu San! Hurry, help, our house is burning!” Liu San—my grandfather—sprang from bed and learned it was Lian Cai, our neighbor, whose haystack was ablaze. The firelight turned our house red, flames roaring beyond saving, yet still they rushed out to help—if the wind picked up, the fire would consume both our homes. “When the city gates catch fire, the fish in the moat suffer.”

“Alright, I’m coming!” Liu San shouted, grabbing the iron barrel and broom from the kitchen, and dashed out. By then, a cacophony filled the night—voices, shouts, the clang of metal. While our neighbors struggled to douse the flames, suddenly our own house was bathed in firelight—Shuyun, my grandmother, leapt up and cried, “Oh, heavens! This is terrible!” Barefoot, she ran out back, shouting for help. The fire next door had just been brought under control, but now everyone ran to our aid, hauling water, beating at the burning straw with brooms. After nearly an hour, the fire was out, leaving only a small pile of charred wood. That winter promised to be even harsher.

When the neighbors rested in our home afterward, Old Yuan from the east yard asked my grandfather, “How did the fire start?” My grandmother snapped, “Isn’t it obvious? Someone’s been cursing us.” Old Yuan doubted that, but Old Zou chimed in, “Most likely the coal vendors did it—who else would be out at night?” Everyone agreed, and after much grumbling, they all went home.

The next morning, a pounding at the door woke us—my mother had returned from playing mahjong all night. “Open the door!” My grandfather grumbled at my grandmother’s displeasure, “Let her in. What’s the use of complaining?”

My father was the real disappointment. After breakfast, my maternal grandfather arrived. “So early, is something wrong? Come in and sit,” my grandfather greeted.

Face full of resentment, my mother’s father said, “Xiaoyu borrowed wheat from me months ago; when will you return it? I need to sell it for cash.” My grandfather was bewildered—“Xiaoyu borrowed wheat? When?” My mother’s father insisted he had, to grind flour because there was nothing to eat, and now it was overdue. My grandfather called out, “Xiaoyu!”—my father’s nickname, real name Liu Yunlong.

Cornered, my father confessed: he’d lost over a hundred yuan gambling and used the wheat to pay his debt. My grandfather exploded, hurling a tobacco box at him and threatening to beat him senseless. My mother’s father, Zhang Jinguo, dismissed the spectacle, saying, “Enough of this charade. I’m taking the wheat to sell to the commune.” My grandfather, furious, gave him three out of ten bags—two thousand jin in all—though there wouldn’t be enough left for our family of eight. We had no hope of borrowing from neighbors, for we were the descendants of a Nationalist general and wealthy landowners—no face left to ask for help.

Zhang Jinguo left with the wheat, mocking, “The illustrious offspring of Nationalist warlords and landlords, fallen so low—how the mighty have fallen.” My grandfather retorted, “At least we have something. Not like some people—worth less than a dog!” Zhang Jinguo’s face darkened, but he could only whip his ox and depart.

At home, my grandfather’s anger led him to beat my father with a belt, terrifying my aunts, who wept. He then questioned my mother, “Where were you?” “Playing mahjong,” she replied. He scoffed, “Play all you want. We’re out of firewood and food—you’ll all freeze and starve. What sin have I committed to deserve this?”

Shuyun, my grandmother, said, “What’s the point of talking? We’ll get by somehow.” Liu San muttered, “The fire was retribution. We’ve angered someone. Let’s see what disaster comes next.”

He noted that my mother, after a night of mahjong, seemed remarkably energetic—not tired at all. But there was no time to dwell on it; the pressing concern was how to get through the winter.

Meanwhile, Zhang Jinguo, my wretched maternal grandfather, hurried to a thatched hut, calling out, “Old Kuai, I’ve brought you grain!” Out came a woman in her forties and a man in his twenties—her son, surname Lu. The woman asked, “What’s the meaning of this?” “I’ve brought food for you and your son,” Zhang replied.

She retorted, “My son, not yours.” Zhang said, “We’re almost family now, aren’t we?” She replied, “Have you agreed to my terms?” “I would, if I could raise three hundred yuan for the wedding,” he answered. She said, “If it’s too much, find someone else—I’m not eager to marry you.” Zhang pleaded, promising to find a way.

Then she proposed, “Your daughter and my son have met and seem suited. Let’s exchange marriages—you marry me, and your daughter marries my son.” Zhang’s eyes gleamed. “Really? Agreed!” She asked, “Will Liu San consent?” Zhang boasted, “He’s an honest man—he’ll agree to his son and daughter-in-law divorcing within a month.”

She added, “We don’t want their little brat—it’s not our blood. Would only waste food.” Zhang grinned and agreed, then gave Lu’s son five yuan for wine and food. As soon as he left, Zhang embraced the woman, and what followed cannot be decently described—let’s just say it was as grotesque as two turtles meeting.

A few minutes later, Zhang, catching his breath, fondled her sagging flesh and his own bald head, scheming how to break up his second daughter’s marriage and win over this woman. Some people are truly wretched, young and old alike.

After many such collusions, trouble, and endless bickering, Zhang got his way—marrying the woman, while my mother, Zhang Guiyan, married her son. Their “happy” life was one of constant hunger and regular beatings. The woman didn’t last long under Zhang’s “good fortune,” dying the next year.

It was then that our family was torn apart, and I became a weed growing wild. At first, I was assigned to my mother, but my grandmother, out of spite, declared, “Not a feather will I give her—not even the child!” Imagine the division of the household, the fighting over cabinets, quilts, bowls, food, chickens, ducks, geese, and dogs—back then, everything was precious.

Three years later, when I was three, my father found his first stepmother for me, Huang Caixia. Her name foretold the outcome: “Huang”—yellow, or finished; “Caixia”—rosy clouds, soon scattered. At first, their romance seemed sweet, but really it was just my father making all the effort—like a brainless terrier, obsessed with little else but finding a mate. How a Nationalist general’s descendant produced such a creature, I’ll never know—perhaps dragons truly bear nine sons, each different.

On the morning of her arrival, the household was festive. My father wore his only suit, polished his bicycle, and took me to fetch my new stepmother and her relatives for a meal—an engagement, of sorts. Seated on the bicycle’s crossbar, he reminded me, “Be good, call her mother from now on…” I thought, “Call her mother? Like hell I will!”

All went smoothly that day, and the family was, for a brief moment, harmonious. But within two or three months, everything changed. On the Mid-Autumn Festival, the whole family was busy preparing a meal—my grandparents, uncle, aunt, my father, my brother, and that shameless woman. Everyone toiled except her—she lay sulking in her room. When asked, my grandmother guessed she was unwell or homesick.

When food was ready, she refused to eat, not saying a word. My grandfather’s face grew darker, but, it being a holiday, he said nothing, simply downed two shots of liquor. The family was enjoying the celebration when the stepmother emerged, standing at the door and sneering, “What a happy family—how lively!” My aunt tried to coax her to eat, but she threw the plate my grandmother had brought onto the table.

The suddenness of it stunned everyone. My uncle stood, ready to strike her with a bench, restrained only by my aunt. “What are you doing? Can’t you talk if you have a problem?” she pleaded.

The stepmother sat on the floor, wailing and rolling, “I can’t live like this—everyone’s beating me, why did I ever marry into this family?” My uncle, furious, was only stopped from violence by my grandfather, who declared, “It’s not your place to act—I’m still alive.”

He then addressed the stepmother, “Since you’re so unhappy, do you want to split the family? Either you all leave, or I will.” My grandfather responded, “That’s not for you to decide. Even if you ask my sons, do you think they’d dare agree?” My uncle offered her a coffin instead. My grandfather asked my father, “Do you want to split the family too?”

Liu Yunlong was silent for a long time. “Useless wretch,” my grandfather spat. My grandmother finally relented, “Fine, if you want to split, let’s do it. I’m tired of this embarrassment.”

The stepmother demanded the house and land. My uncle cursed her. My grandfather calculated: two houses, forty mu of land. My father and Liu Jian would get ten mu; the rest—thirty mu—belonged to my aunts, the old couple, and my uncle’s family. He gave my father one house and ten mu, the other house and thirty mu to my uncle. The stepmother demanded the deed; my grandfather replied, “When I’m dead, it’s yours. While I live, never!”

With that, he left with my grandmother and uncle, moving to my uncle’s home. Thus began over a decade of family discord.

The next morning, my grandfather rented two rooms from a neighbor and moved out without a word. That winter was especially cold for me—I was not yet four. Each day, my first task was to start the fire and cook. I couldn’t really cook—just reheated leftovers in the pot with water, then ate. Afterwards, I went out to work—collecting cow dung, pig dung, horse dung, and, if lucky, scraps from the trash. I wore only summer clothes, thin cotton shoes.

One night, my father sent me to buy pears—over a kilometer through deep snow. When I returned, frozen and sniffling, my stepmother accused me of stealing some. She sent me back to weigh them again. At the store, the owner, angry at the accusation, returned with me, wrapped me in a military coat, and stormed to our house. Bursting in, he shattered the window with the pears. My stepmother and father, caught in their indecency, were terrified. The owner, a notorious local gangster, threatened them. Neighbors gathered, jeering at my father.

After they left, my father beat me savagely, using belt, willow branch, and fire poker, leaving me barely conscious. I spent the night in the kitchen straw pile, bloodied but not cold—what could be colder than a dead heart?

I resolved to end my life. The next morning, carrying a packet of pesticide, I went to my grandparents’ house to see them one last time but didn’t dare go in. A neighbor found me and brought me inside. My uncle and aunt were there, as my younger aunt and her husband had returned from the city. Seeing my state, they asked questions, but I said nothing—I was planning to die, after all.

At breakfast, I devoured seven pancakes and a bowl of soup, crying all the while—my last meal. Afterward, I drank water, surreptitiously swallowing the poison, and lay down quietly, waiting for release.

Time seemed to stop. I heard my aunt’s voice—she had arrived with her family. Everyone went out to greet her, leaving me alone, dizzy and nauseous. When they returned, my eldest aunt noticed something was wrong—“Why is he spinning in circles, foaming at the mouth?” They tried to revive me; I whispered, “I’m almost done—dying now.” They rushed me to the hospital, and after several days, I survived.

After that, I lived with my grandparents. My stepmother fled, and my father left to work elsewhere—perhaps chasing after that shameless woman. He was gone for ten years.

With my grandparents’ care, I finished primary school and entered middle school. We were poor—no pocket money, hand-me-down clothes from relatives. A child without a mother gets by as best they can.

Around 2000, I entered middle school with the second-highest score in the school, despite not taking the entrance exam—my teachers, exasperated, let a transfer student take it in my name. In class, I was a star: class monitor, Chinese representative, flag bearer, discipline committee member—loved by all. Yet I never did homework, often skipped class, fought, stole money, eggs, harvested others’ crops to sell for cash. With no parental oversight, I learned to fend for myself, all for a bit of pride—while others enjoyed treats, I chewed grass stems and scratched my heels.

Children without mothers all turn out differently—some crave affection, some are timid, some shameless and rebellious, some thieves, some violent, some deeply misogynistic, some with twisted desires. I became cunning, suspicious, ruthless, obsessed with appearances—whatever I boasted I would do, I achieved by thirty-five.

Thanks to my teachers’ favor, I have a few fond memories of childhood. My strengths lay in literature, history, politics, geography, and biology—only math and English were hopeless. My homeroom teacher, also my math teacher, was always disappointed. Just as things looked up, an accident ended my schooling, setting me adrift on a wild and absurd path.

In 2000, I was elected a Communist Youth League member, won first prize in the annual essay contest, and was named Best Student Leader. But the recognition went to my head. I learned to fall in love online, to cheat and swindle, to scheme and manipulate.

At that time, the internet was new, with games like CS, QQ, Dance Dance Revolution, and Legend captivating us. My studies suffered as I fell for a girl named Hao Xiaojun. To support our romance and my new lifestyle, I resorted to various means.

One day, our homeroom teacher, Sun Li, announced we would collect five yuan from each student for class supplies. She also said, “The class monitor’s grades have slipped; for the good of the class, the vice monitor, Chai Kaijie, will take over.” I was resentful but kept quiet, plotting my revenge.

The next day, I paid ten yuan—double the fee—which surprised everyone. I said it was for the collective good. The teacher insisted five was enough, but my gesture inspired others; most paid ten, some five. The money—over three hundred yuan—was entrusted to the new monitor.

A few days later, the money was stolen. You needn’t ask who—it was me.

The next morning, I arrived at class to find a crowd around the monitor, some comforting her, others gossiping. I slapped one student who slandered her, shouting at him.

Because of the commotion and my leadership, the incident escalated into a brawl, drawing the principal’s attention. All the participants were publicly criticized, and the teachers reprimanded. That afternoon, our teacher, purple with rage, held a class meeting to denounce us. The class officers spoke out—most loyal to me—demanding accountability for the missing money.

The sports committee member, Wang Tao, said the monitor should take responsibility. Academic and living committee members joined in, shaming her. The teacher finally said, “I’ll take responsibility. But to whoever took the money—don’t do it again!”

After she left, the class erupted in rumors. The monitor’s reputation was ruined, and she soon transferred schools. I felt a twinge of guilt—well, perhaps more than a twinge.

With her gone, the teacher had no suitable replacement and asked me to resume the role. I declined, claiming poor grades, but she insisted. Thus, I resumed leadership and realized my hunger for power.

To solidify my position, I stole over four hundred yuan from my grandfather at night—unaware that a discarded red receipt would cause a major problem.

My grandfather soon appeared at school, demanding to know if I’d taken the money and the crucial receipt for eight thousand yuan from the grain sale. I admitted to taking the money to cover the stolen class funds, hoping to avoid further trouble.

A relative, the school’s logistics director, intervened, assuring my grandfather that the missing receipt could be dealt with and that I would be fine. My teacher, upon learning my story, advised me to comfort my grandfather and apologize.

I was too scared to return home, fearing another beating, and decided to run away for good. At fifteen, without an ID, I could only take things as they came. I took a minibus to the city, then boarded a train for Qingdao, where my aunt and father had worked for years.

Without a ticket, I pretended to be mentally challenged when the conductor checked tickets. The train manager, a kind woman named Ye, took me under her wing, fed me, and ensured I reached my destination through a relay of officials, ending up at the labor camp, which finally sent me to the bus station.

Arriving in a rainstorm, I found my aunt’s house by the address she’d once given me. My sudden appearance shocked everyone. After calling home, my aunt and uncle accepted that I would not return to school.

Later, my aunt took me to my father’s rented room. He had a new partner, Zhang Songyan, who had a daughter left behind at home. I felt nothing for this new stepmother—by then, I was used to such arrangements. I realized then that I could rely on no one but myself.

Author’s Note