A House of Her Own

"A woman must have money and a room of her own." - Virginia Woolf

I didn't want to come back home. The day after learning about my parents' last fight, I booked a ticket to San Francisco, desperate to put the Pacific Ocean between us. Though I needed to return to China for my work visa application and to pack my belongings, the thought of going home filled me with such dread that I canceled my first ticket in panic, rebooking to a different city. I stayed with friends for two weeks before finally gathering the courage to return.

After the fight, my mother's tendon was torn, requiring surgery. She spent several nights in the hospital, followed by two weeks at her sister's home. I, too, sought refuge at my aunt's place for three nights. Home, at this point, meant only my hometown.

Today, we moved into my mother's newly rented apartment - the first space that's truly her own. It's almost 150 square meters, transformed from its previous life as a wine shop. The shelves that once displayed bottles still line the walls, and the shop's old slogan remains visible in what is now our living room. We had one part of the shelves taken down to let some light into the living room. The shelves were built with cheap materials, and though the openings look ugly, we are going to fix them soon. The restroom is too small to fit a washer, so we placed it right outside, with the dryer in a different room. We don't have wardrobes yet, so we hang clothes on the shelves in one of the smaller rooms. These imperfections don't matter - what matters is that every decision about this space is hers to make.

My mother's older sister has been instrumental in making this space livable. She had a water heater and shower head installed in the basic bathroom that previously had only a toilet and sink. We brought furniture from our old house - my mother and I each have our own rooms, sharing a wall. Mine is sparse, with just a bed and a bedside drawer. The dining table and four chairs from our old house now occupy the center of the living room. This apartment, unlike our old house, carries no echoes of control or fear.

The apartment's setup was rushed. When my mother's friends visited in the afternoon, we lacked basic amenities - no guest slippers, a water boiler placed directly on the floor, insufficient seating. Yet they brought gifts and praised everything about the place - its size, location, and cleanliness. What remained unspoken was their relief: this was finally my mother's own home, with her own shop just across the street - a space where she could be truly free.

Despite lacking a kitchen in the house, my aunt prepared our first meal in my mother's shop across the street. She brought over food since my mom still can't walk freely. Five women gathered around that table - my mother, her two older sisters, my cousin, and myself. We ate in silence, but the meaning was clear: we were celebrating not just a new home, but my mother's new chapter of life.

Today is December 13th - coincidentally, my mother's birthday in the lunar calendar. The past few days have been challenging, and I know I'll need time to process these wounds. But I'm grateful to be here, witnessing one of the most important days of her life. After thirty years, she finally has what every woman deserves - a house of her own, where she makes the rules, where no one can kick her out, at least for the one-year rental term. :)