Volume Two: The Path to Azure Clouds 25. The Arrival of the Son

After marrying Shu Xiaoya, we did not live together because if she stayed at the company apartment, her commute would be too far. Conversely, if I moved into her family’s home, the distance to my workplace would be a secondary issue; it simply never felt like my own home, which was always inconvenient. Consequently, we settled into the routine of a "weekend couple," where either she would come to the factory or, occasionally, I would visit her home on weekends or holidays.

Overall, our married life was quite happy. The renowned scholar and author Qian Zhongshu once wrote in his novel that "marriage is like a fortress; those outside want to get in, and those inside want to get out." A famous singer also sang in a song that swept the streets years ago, "Falling in love is always simple, but living together is too hard." Both sentiments highlight the sharp reality of how difficult it is to cultivate a successful marriage.

Perhaps because Shu Xiaoya and I did not spend every waking moment together, I found our marriage to be happy and satisfying, with no major issues. However, she was different from the person I knew before marriage. She possessed a near-obsessive cleanliness that could not tolerate the slightest speck of dirt, which I found difficult to adjust to. Furthermore, having been pampered since childhood, she was unaccustomed to doing housework; after we married, this remained unchanged, and I ended up taking on all the chores. I didn't think much of it, as I believed spouses should be tolerant of one another. I simply adjusted myself and tried my best to adapt to her habits.

A few months later, around National Day, Shu Xiaoya suddenly felt nauseous one morning. After calling her mother and receiving her advice, I accompanied her to the factory hospital, where we confirmed she was pregnant. We were both overjoyed. We called her parents, who were also thrilled and made sure to relay the news to my mother. Hearing how happy my mother was—for she had long awaited the arrival of a grandson—deepened our own joy.

Once she was pregnant, we heard that prenatal education was very effective. By her fifth or sixth month, we began playing classical piano music for her regularly. In the evenings, I would often speak to her belly and recite Tang poetry.

As her pregnancy progressed, her morning sickness worsened; she could barely keep any food down. Fortunately, the summer break arrived two months before her due date, so she no longer had to teach. However, as the birth approached, the question of who would care for her became a major problem. I had to work, and her mother was not yet retired and still had a job. Hiring a nanny was not only a financial burden but also left us feeling uneasy. After much deliberation, we realized we had no choice but to ask my mother to come. Although I worried she might not be accustomed to leaving her hometown, I saw no other way.

When I spoke to my mother on the phone, she was indeed hesitant. After all, the household relied on her labor, and my younger brother, Donghai, was used to being idle. Furthermore, Donghai was of marriageable age but still had no girlfriend, which was a constant source of worry for her. It was natural for her to be concerned about him, as a mother’s love is divided equally among her children. Yet, after hearing the specifics of my situation, she ultimately agreed, which moved me deeply.

On the day my son was born, while I was waiting outside the delivery room, my mother rushed over to tell me that Shu Xiaoya had given birth to a boy and that the nurse had already taken him to the ward. For some reason, the baby wouldn't stop crying, and neither my mother nor my mother-in-law—now the child’s grandmother and maternal grandmother—could soothe him. They urged me to go check on him. I hurried over, hearing his cries before I even entered the room. Upon seeing him in the cradle—his round face and pitch-black hair—I felt an inexplicable sense of familiarity, as if I had known him for a long time. Yet, he continued to sob.

I bent down and, just as I had done when speaking to Shu Xiaoya’s belly, whispered, "Baby, don't cry, Daddy is here." As soon as the words left my lips, perhaps recognizing the familiar voice, he miraculously stopped crying. I was so moved I nearly wept. I comforted him a little more, then prepared to return to the delivery room to wait for Shu Xiaoya. To my regret, the nurses had already moved her to the ward. Because I hadn't been waiting outside for her, she felt neglected, and it became a lingering point of contention in her heart.

Having a son brought me a feeling I had never experienced before, one that is perhaps impossible for those who haven't been fathers to imagine. Looking at him, I found him more endearing every time. When he smiled, I couldn't help but smile; when he cried or was in pain, I felt it too. No matter how tired or stressed I was, seeing him washed away all my worries. I felt I could give everything for him—a depth of emotion I had never anticipated.

I named my son Wang Zhengyang, hoping he would grow up to be an upright man who promotes righteousness. His nickname, "Yangyang," reflected my wish for him to be sunny and cheerful.

As Yangyang grew, his intelligence was unimaginable. He could call me "Papa" at nine months, and by his first birthday, he could recite several Tang poems and say dozens of English words. By eighteen months, he recognized hundreds of characters, knew hundreds of English words from listening to children's tapes, could count fluently to one hundred, and perform single-digit addition and subtraction. By the age of three, he could read storybooks without needing pinyin.

When Yangyang was not yet a year old, we took him to the children's hospital for a fever. While walking through a corridor, he told me, "Papa, someone here has fallen over."

I looked around, confused, seeing no one on the floor. I asked him, "Where?"

He pointed with his little finger. Following his lead, I suddenly realized he was looking at the characters for "Entrance." He didn't know the character for "enter," but he recognized the character for "person" and noticed it looked slightly different, leading him to conclude the "person" had fallen over.

When he was over a year old, during the New Year, the factory hung colorful lanterns. I took him to play and asked him how to say "lantern" in English. He quickly replied, "Light." I then casually asked, "And what about colorful lanterns?"

I immediately realized he had never learned that, but he blurted out, "Colour light." While not perfectly accurate, his ability to adapt at such a young age astonished me.

He loved brain teasers. When he was two, I asked him: "There's a patch of grass. A flock of sheep comes by. Guess a fruit." He didn't know, so I told him the answer was "strawberry" (a pun on "grass-gone" in Chinese). He understood. I then asked, "Next, a pack of wolves comes by. Guess a fruit." The intended answer was "waxberry" (a pun on "sheep-gone"), but after a moment's thought, he replied, "Yangtao" (starfruit, but also a pun on "sheep-flee"). I was stunned. Even many adults struggle with such questions, yet he not only solved it but provided a logical answer outside the standard set.

He also knew how to read the room and charm people. At two, he learned a song that included the line: "Elephant, elephant, do you like Daddy or Mommy more?" The song usually continued, "I think I like my Mommy more." But Yangyang changed it. When only his mother was present, he sang, "I think I like my Mommy more." When I was alone, he sang, "I think I like my Daddy more." Once, when we were both home, he sang, "I think I like my parents more."

Of course, intelligence is one thing; mischief is another. He was never timid or timid. He was always dismantling things or getting reported by other parents for playing pranks on their children.

When he started kindergarten at three, my mother was worried, watching him from outside the window. To her surprise, he was having the time of his life, teasing this child and that. The teacher called me on the first day to complain: while other children were crying from separation anxiety, Yangyang had played with all the toys and then told the other kids that their parents didn't want them anymore and would leave them there forever, causing a chorus of tears throughout the classroom. I scolded him that night, but he seemed entirely indifferent.

Expecting him to calm down, I was surprised when the teacher called again the next day. He hadn't told the kids their parents were abandoning them, but he had told a classmate that eating the lunch would make them stupid, requiring the teacher to spend great effort coaxing the child to eat.

Although Yangyang was very bright, he lacked the diligence to study hard. His grades were rarely outstanding; he was usually ranked in the middle or low teens, sometimes even in the twenties. However, he was a natural leader among his peers, and teachers liked him as well.

He also loved soccer. I preferred basketball and once joked with him, "What's the point of soccer? Look at the Chinese team—it's just a history of failure and heartbreak."

Yangyang disagreed. "I don't care about all that. I like it because I like it. I'm happy, and that's enough." That made sense, so I let him be. It was just a hobby, after all.

Life with my son was happy, even if our expenses skyrocketed. I was tired but content. Yet, a new conflict arose at home between my mother and Shu Xiaoya regarding their differing habits.

During the pregnancy, the tension was subtle, but after Yangyang was born, it escalated. It mostly centered on leftovers. My mother, who did the cooking, always saved leftovers for the next meal, a lifelong habit. Shu Xiaoya couldn't stand this; after complaining several times, she simply started dumping the leftovers in the trash. My mother would say nothing, often wiping away tears in private.

Then there was the issue of diapers. My mother insisted on sewing them from old fabric, preferring the hard work of washing them over using disposable diapers. Shu Xiaoya insisted on disposables and, in front of my mother, threw the cloth diapers into the trash. My mother couldn't hold back her tears.

I was torn. My mother had worked hard to raise me and put me through college, and I couldn't bear to see her mistreated. While Shu Xiaoya wasn't always wrong, her blunt, inconsiderate approach was difficult. I spoke to her about it several times, but her personality was too rigid to change.

My mother, in turn, disapproved of Shu Xiaoya’s spending habits and was particularly upset that she refused to breastfeed in order to maintain her figure. She mentioned this to me several times and would occasionally drop hints in front of Shu Xiaoya.

The relationship between mother-in-law and daughter-in-law was never harmonious. I could see my mother was unhappy, yet for the sake of her grandson and me, she endured it. It wasn't until Yangyang was in middle kindergarten and my mother-in-law retired to take over childcare that my mother finally proposed returning to her hometown to help Donghai find a wife. I felt immense guilt knowing she had sacrificed so much for me while finding no happiness in my home. Since she felt more comfortable in her hometown, I sent her back. Even though I insisted on sending her living expenses, I always felt that what I could do for her was far too little compared to the lifetime of love she had given me.