In the quiet moments between unpacking boxes, I catch myself thinking about how we got here. A week has passed since my mom and I carved out this new space for ourselves after being forced out by my father. The first thing I did was tear down those gaudy plastic Chinese characters from the living room wall - "至臻典藏·酒世界 全球采购直供". Finally, it doesn't feel like we are sitting in a wine shop.
The small victories feel strangely significant: finally having a pillowcase after two nights of sleeping on a bare pillow; watching my mom's room transform with a new desk for the water boiler and fruits and snacks relatives bring; having a sofa in her room so people can actually sit properly when visiting her. We even have internet now - finally it feels like a proper home.
Life here comes with some funny inconveniences, especially compared to our old house. The washing machine stands guard outside our too-small bathroom like an awkward sentinel, its pipes snaking inside through the door that never quite closes. When relatives visit, I shepherd them directly to my mom's room when I need to take a shower. To reach my mom's space, everyone must first pass through my room, where my clothes still live in an open suitcase - we don't have any wardrobe or furnitures to hang our clothes.
Yet in this imperfect space, something beautiful is taking shape. My aunt, my mom's older sister, stays over some nights. Through the thin walls that don't let me forget I'm not alone, I hear them sharing a bed, their voices weaving together in the darkness. Their conversations remind me of nights spent with my own sister, that intimate language of siblings that survives marriage, distance, and time. My aunt's presence here feels especially poignant - she too knows the turbulence of marriage, yet here she is, helping create order in our chaos.
There's a certain peace in this house of women. Despite all temporary solutions, despite my mom lacking the workforce to properly renovate at year's end, we're building something real. Every time I walk through the door, I feel it - not the perfection of my old home, but something more honest. A space where two generations of women can heal, laugh, and start again.
My days now revolve around driving my mom between hospitals, her store, and factory. But I've found an unexpected sanctuary: a small mountain just two minutes from our apartment. Though it barely reaches 100 meters, I've claimed it as my hiking spot. Every night after dinner, I walk up this little mountain. It's a quick climb, but in those precious moments, I find the solitude that our thin-walled apartment can't offer. This brief escape has become my favorite part of each day - a small patch of peace I can call my own.
It's messy and imperfect, but it's ours. And for now, that's enough.
I can see the stars!
