July onward, I ground glass into beads at the pearl factory. Fine dust coated my face, filled my lungs, left me coughing until my ribs ached.
When winter came, my hands swelled up like dough from the cold.
After my shift ended each night, I still had to go to the chicken farm to collect eggs. I wouldn't drag myself home until well past midnight.
During those years, I cried in the dark more nights than I could count. And every morning, I gritted my teeth, got up, and did it all over again.
Year after year, the only clothes on my back were hand-me-downs other people had thrown away.
But whenever my brother or sisters needed money, I never hesitated. Not once.
I spun like a top, around and around, year after year after year.
Finally, Sylvester got into college and married. Pat graduated too.
The weight on my shoulders eased, just a little.
By then, I was already thirty. A matchmaker set me up on a blind date.
He was from the next village over. An honest man. We had a simple wedding.
After the marriage, I split my energy in half. One half went to my own little family. The other half still went to my mother's house.
I thought things would slowly get better.
But five years later, my mother was suddenly paralyzed. She needed someone for everything—eating, drinking, bathing, using the bathroom.
Sylvester said he was too busy with work. Pat had just gotten married. Val said he needed to focus on his studies.
Nobody was willing to step up.
So I picked up the burden again, spending every day revolving around my mother. Feeding her. Bathing her. Turning her over. Emptying bedpans.
Day after day, without a single break.
I kept it up for two years before my husband finally couldn't take it anymore.
I filed for divorce and let him keep our son.
The year we divorced, Val graduated from college. He couldn't find a job he liked, so he insisted on studying for the civil service exam. He studied for three years. I supported him unconditionally for all three.
I'd poured half a lifetime of youth and sweat into that family.
I thought that even if I couldn't claim credit, at least my suffering counted for something.
But my mother said I'd never contributed to the family.
Eight million dollars in demolition compensation, and I didn't see a cent.
A shrill ringtone cut through my thoughts.
It was my mother.
"Where are you?"
I looked up and around. "At the peach orchard."