Shadows into

Light

by

Sarah Liu

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“The act of writing requires a constant plunging back into the shadow of the past where time hovers ghostlike.” -Ralph Ellison

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Prologue

Sarah Liu (Yin Ting) February 2013

A Tiger

It was a late February night, a slight scent of winter lingering in the air. The flickering

street lights projected two shadows onto the pavement—one of an elderly man and the other of a young girl. The two shuffled, hand in hand, through the biting night, their quiet murmurs echoing through the empty neighbourhood.

I pressed my hand closer against grandpa’s rough boney one. His hands were different from mine—scarred and wrinkled. But they were warm, much warmer than my own. I snuggled my face into my thick muffler, desperately retaining as much warmth as possible. Glancing at my grandpa by my side, I furrowed my brows.

“Gong Gong, I’m pretty sure I told you to wear more than that!” I lectured him in broken Chinese. He wore no more than a thin raincoat over his paint splattered, navy blue overalls. I looked down at his feet and let out a sigh of exasperation.

He was wearing flip-flops.

“I’m not cold,” he replied. “This weather is nothing compared to the winters back in China”. My grandpa smiled cheekily like a five year old boy, his eyes crinkling with mischief.

“No, I’m not taking your word for it,” I huffed. I removed my muffler, and before my grandpa could refute, I quickly slipped the muffler neatly around his neck.

I felt the bitter wind clawing at my freshly revealed flesh almost immediately, but paid no heed to it. My grandpa looked up at me and thanked me.

I never realized how small and fragile he was, until then.

My grandpa absolutely loved sharing his life experiences with others. Whenever we both had time, he would share his elaborate tales with me. I hold all these stories close to my heart. I’ve often contemplated what segments of his past I should ask about. It’s not that there are parts of his past I’m uninterested in, but I rarely ever voice my questions, mainly due to a language barrier. I have lost much of my first language; I no longer know how to properly – no, respectfully formulate a question that doesn’t rip open old wounds, because I know, that behind his childish smile, hides a dark past.

This darker segment of his past is like a murky ocean. I can only tread into it so far before

I must stop, for fear of drowning. The two of us continued to make our way along the sidewalk. My grandpa was

accompanying me home from his place. The supposed ten minute walk home felt much longer though, because that night, I decided to tread deeper into the “ocean” than usual.

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“Gong Gong, you lived in an orphanage until you were fifteen, right?” A rhetorical question. I cringed at my broken Chinese, but continued.

“What was it like there?” I braced myself for a serious and depressing answer.

I didn't dare ask about what happened to my great grandparents.

My grandpa hummed as I anxiously waited in silence. Then, unexpectedly, he grinned with his usual playfulness.

“Back then in the orphanage, I was famously known as the ‘Little Tiger’,” my grandpa began. All the tension left my body, and I let out the breath I didn’t know I was holding in.

Low tide.

I had mixed feelings: relieved and disappointed at the same time.

“How did that happen?” I chuckled lightly, “Don’t tell me you were one of those disobedient brats, Gong Gong!”

“No, of course not!” he huffed. “I was called that because of my bravery and ferociousness!” I blinked in surprise, but said nothing, beckoning for him to continue.

My grandpa animatedly described his first day at the orphanage. It was a sweltering summer afternoon when he arrived. He was only seven years old at the time, extremely scrawny, small, and lost. The teachers at the orphanage were very welcoming, and perhaps out of pity, gave him a larger portion of rice for lunch.

Obviously, the others noticed. One child in particular was extremely offended by this special treatment. The bully snatched my grandpa’s heavy bowl, and devoured its contents in seconds.

Being the short tempered and reckless person my grandpa was, he immediately

responded by violently kicking the bully’s delicate private part, reclaimed his bowl, and subsequently smashed the bowl against the other’s head.

The bully obviously wasn’t happy.

The taller and much larger boy grabbed my grandpa by the collar, and brutally threw him onto the ground. The two fought vigorously until the teachers forcefully pulled them apart.

My grandpa received more than a few bad bruises – his head was cracked open, and his arms and legs were badly scratched. But the bully was in a much worse condition, and to my grandpa, that was all that mattered.

“I still have the scar on my head today; it is my battle scar,” he said proudly, pointing to said scar “because after I beat up that bully of the orphanage, everyone respected me immensely—”

“And decided to call you the ‘Little Tiger’?” I asked. My grandpa chuckled in agreement.

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I chuckled along with him; it was a short, yet enjoyable story. Playful, peaceful, and no doubt filtered of anything dark or tragic. I wasn’t naïve – I knew Gong Gong entered the orphanage during World War II. Despite my grandpa’s light tone, his time at the orphanage was definitely terrifying, especially for a mere seven year old child.

By then, my house came into view; story time was over. My grandpa let go of my hands, and returned my muffler. He smiled at me lovingly with a hint of sadness, and I instantly understood why. He found himself in a dilemma – should he allow me to wade deeper into the ocean, or stay safely near the shore?

I kept quiet. I didn’t know when I would learn of my grandpa’s past completely, but I had no reason or desire to push for information. We still had time.

One day, perhaps soon, he would be ready to tell me everything.

I hugged him and as always, thanked him for his stories. We said our goodbyes, and

parted ways.

Silently, I watched the silhouette of an old tiger disappear into the darkness, his back straight, his head lifted high in confidence and with pride.

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Chapter 1

Sao Chong Wong: 1943, Mei Xian City

New Chapter

It was a sweltering and dry summer day, with shrouds of sand covering the streets. An

occasional breeze swept through the town, carrying a putrid smell of corpses and feces. Thick dreary clouds dotted the skies, creating a gloomy atmosphere that lowered upon the town, well suiting the turmoil in the hearts of many.

The dirt streets remained empty, save for the occasional few who would trudge past. Their ashen faces were sunken in like dried prunes, and their bodies, suffering from severe malnutrition, moved rigidly, every movement revealing a fraction of their boniness into plain view. Their shoulders hunched from an invisible burden, and their feet slapped clumsily against the ground, stirring puffs of dirt in their path. Despite their presence, the town may as well be deemed lifeless and abandoned; these people were as dead as the corpses that piled up in alleyways – you could see it in their eyes. War had diminished their beings into nothing but empty voids. At the edge of the road, four figures sat silently, pressing closely together despite the unbearable heat. They were dressed in tatterdemalion rags that were smeared with dirt, and threadbare from the constant wearing and tearing. A once white porcelain bowl lay in front of them, cracked, and sullied, holding only a few rusted coins.

Among the four was a young, seven year old boy. The bangs of his damp and tousled black hair clung to his wide forehead, as another bead of sweat slid down the side of his tanned face. Despite his undeniably young age, there was a haunting roughness to his features, features that shouldn’t be present on a child.

SEE, if this were meant to be a typical teen fiction novel, I would start describing how this young, pitiful boy was actually destined to accomplish the unimaginable – upturning the corrupted government, or saving the Earth from an invasion of green goblin-like aliens, for instance. But it is not, and this seven year old boy was not exactly destined to save the universe.

He was, however, destined to be my grandpa.

Together with his older sister, younger brother, and father, my grandpa, Sao Chong Wong, sat by the street curb, begging. The four of them would gaze hopefully at passers-bys for spare change – or anything, really. But in the difficult times they were in, sympathy simply did not exist. Everyone was struggling just to survive and all were suffering in some way. Suffering was the true face of war.

“Those damned radish heads should go drop dead,’’ the father cursed through clenched teeth.

Sao Chong flinched slightly at the sudden harshness of his father’s tone, then nodded his head in quiet agreement. He bit his bottom lip in desperation to keep his tears at bay. He harboured just as much hatred towards the Japanese as any other Chinese person did; they

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invaded and brought ruin to China. To most, the Japanese were intruders, enemies, torturers, but to Sao Chong, they were also his mother’s brutal murderers.

A whimper escaped the lips of the youngest child, Sao Ping, followed by light sobbing. Sao Chong immediately shuffled closer to his younger brother, and wrapped his arms around the other. It was obvious that Sao Ping couldn’t withstand the hunger any longer. It has been days since any charity organization dropped by to deliver food.

“Sao Ping, don’t cry; we will get food soon,” their father began slowly, in a soft voice. He sounded confident and hopeful, but the doubt in his eyes betrayed him. Light shuffling approached the four of them, but was drowned away by the youngest child’s wailing.

“My goodness! You poor children…” A stranger suddenly loomed over the four of them, looking down with worried eyes. Unlike them, the stranger was dressed in plain, but well-kept clothes. Sao Chong noticed his well-trimmed hair and overall clean appearance—he was no doubt much better off. The man smiled towards Sao Chong’s father.

The man glanced at the youngest son, whose eyes were swollen from crying, then turned his attention back to their father.

“How old is this one here,” the man asked.

“Only four years old.”

The stranger sighed, and shook his head. “This little one here is still much too young; your other two children, though, are fine.” The stranger nodded towards Sao Chong and his sister.

With curious eyes, Sao Chong gazed at the man, subsequently sending his father a questioning glance. His father looked just as confused, but there was an obvious glint of hopeful expectation in his eyes. The director’s smile was laced in kindness, but Sao Chong couldn’t deny the suspicion brewing in his gut. Was he planning to convince Ah Ba to sell us? Even so, what does he plan to do with us then? I don’t understand—

“Actually,” the man began, interrupting Sao Chong’s imaginative thoughts. “I’m the director of a new orphanage nearby. Would you like these two to come to my orphanage?”

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Chapter 2

Sao Chong Wong: 2015, Vancouver

Last Words

“Would you like these two to come to my orphanage?”

My father’s face was contorted with uncertainty as he contemplated his response to the

Orphanage Director. He glanced back at the three of us, eyes softening as he watched his youngest son, Sao Ping continue to sob. A glint of determination flashed across his face as he made his decision.

I immediately knew what my father would say; his eyes said it all. My father turned back towards the Director.

With a grateful smile, he accepted the offer.

I should’ve have felt a tinge of betrayal and fear as my sister had, but I didn’t. I understood the reasoning behind my father’s decision. The orphanage was not much better, but at the very least we would have shelter, better chances of getting food and hence a better chance of survival.

And surviving was all that mattered.

“Sao Chong, Hao Wong, go with the Director,” my father began, only to be interrupted by Hao Wong’s refute.

“No, father, we can’t be separated like this. You can’t abandon us.”

“I’m not abandoning any of you,” my father stated firmly. “I will come find you two and take you two back when the conditions are better.”

I noticed the tears that began to stream down my sister’s face. What more could she say? Despite her unwillingness to go, she too, understood the few choices we had.

Beggars can’t be choosers.

She nodded and wiped away the wetness with her hands, smearing dirt across her pale face. My father turned towards me, and grasped me tightly by the shoulders.

“Sao Chong, you are still young, but you are a man nevertheless. Stay strong. Be strong for your sister. Remember, you are my . . .”

I woke up with a start, as a quiet gasp left my lips. I glance at my surroundings and began

to knead my temple with my knuckles to clear away the blurriness in my eyes. A familiar white blanket was draped over me. My joints creaked softly as I readjusted myself. A shadow of a smile haunted my lips as I recalled my dream, still fresh in my mind. It seemed not long ago, when the four of us, huddled by the roadside, met the Orphanage Director – but then again, time liked to

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play tricks in this manner. In actuality, it has been over eighty years since then. I am no longer the feisty seven year old child I was. My once jet black and dishevelled hair has thinned and slowly bleached over time. Wrinkles became increasingly predominant as time slipped through, streaming across my being like rivulets. Unfortunate, but I have long accepted it as a part of the life cycle.

A sudden dull itch clawed at my chest forcing me to cough and convulse violently. Alerted by the dreadful raspy sound of my coughing, my youngest granddaughter rushed into the room with a glass of tea in her hand. Worry etched her face as she sat by my side, gently stroking my back. She pressed the porcelain teacup into my hands and urged me to drink. Desperate to rid of my coughing, I gulp down the tea, feeling the warmth of the drink blossom in my chest. My coughing subsided.

“How are you feeling, Gong Gong? Better?” my granddaughter badgered me with the usual questions without missing a beat.

“Yes, I am fine, thank you,” I nodded gratefully.

“Ah, see how wonderful Yin Ting is! She immediately runs over to care for you!” I heard my wife, Mail Leng exclaimed as she peeked in from the kitchen.

“Yes, see how she cares for me more!” I teased, and chuckled softly with Yin Ting, who began to laugh as well. I watched my granddaughter stand up, expecting her to head back into her room to finish her English homework. Instead, she stood still for a while with her brows furrowed, then glanced back at me with pursed lips. To my surprise and confusion, she sat back down, and stared intensely at me with new-found determination.

“Gong Gong, I have a new writing assignment that I need your help on,” she began slowly, carefully observing my reaction. I blinked in surprise. This was the first time Yin Ting had ever asked me for help on an assignment. My lack of an immediate response beckoned her to continue. “My teacher would like us to write about our family history. Could you tell me about your past?” Yin Ting asked hopefully. I smiled warmly and readily agreed to help. Any trace of hesitation and doubt washed away from Yin Ting’s face. She let out a breath of relief, and smiled thankfully. She then told me to wait while she looked for her notepad and pen. I watched her receding back as I sunk into the couch. Absentmindedly, my fingers drew circles along the arm of the couch, feeling its leathery texture.

(Perhaps it was finally time to share everything with Yin Ting)

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“Time flies over us, but leaves its shadow behind”

-Nathaniel Hawthorne

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Chapter 3

Mail Leng Ao: 1949, Kai Ping

Nothing

We don't have time. They’re coming, Bet Yok, hurry, hide our valuables, HURRY!

My father shouted for my mother as he rushed into the house, slamming shut the door behind him with great force. Panic-stricken, he glanced frantically around the room, and grabbed everything of value--vases, dishes, clothes, everything, and began wrapping them in a large white blanket he stripped from the dinner table.

“Aiya, husband, what is wrong?” My mother questioned. Worry etched onto her smooth porcelain face as she rushed out from the kitchen towards my father, her jet-black curls bouncing by her shoulders with every hurried step. My siblings and I hid behind the living room door, silently eavesdropping into our parents’ conversation. Our family maid, Ai Jiě, stood closely behind us, sharing my mother’s expression.

“Children, go to your rooms. Go now!” she beckoned us towards our bedrooms before walking hurriedly towards the two frantic adults. My father’s trembling had transferred to Mother in mere seconds. “What do you think is happening, Mail Leng?” My older brother asked in a hushed tone. We had not moved from our spot, despite Ai Jiě’s order. I pressed my lips into a slight pout in response. “Second Brother, I can’t hear them with your arm pressing on my head! Move over!” I squealed back, smacking his arm away, subsequently brushing my fingers through my hair, desperate to fix the two braids hanging by the sides of my face. My second brother scowled. “Mail Leng, you are too young and dumb to understand what the adults are saying anyways! You’re only seven years old, how would you understand?”

I gasped, offended at his refute. “Don’t call me stupid! As if you could understand what they’re saying either – you’re only a few years older than me! You stupid egg!” I crossed my arms, flushed with anger.

“You are stupid! I saw your recent test mark; I bet you were trying to hide that from Ah Mah, weren’t you? Stupid pig! Can’t even do simple math – ”

“It’s about time you two stop arguing,” my eldest brother, Ao Chun Shen interjected. “Ao Jundu, apologize to Mail Leng; she will cry otherwise. That was not nice of you,” he chastised.

I sent a cheeky smirk towards my older brother, who snarled in response. I glanced back at the three adults, who to my shock and dismay, were heading straight towards us, with my mother leading the way.

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“Eldest Brother, Second Brother, Ah Mah is – !” I squealed, trying with all my might to push them out of my way. Confused, my two brothers remained stationed in their spots, blocking my only escape route.

“Children,” My mother began, as the wooden door swung open. “Go to your room, and do everything Ai Jiě tells you. Hurry now, go!”

The tone of her voice was stern, and despite her attempt to sound calm, her voice trembled. The three of us were foreign to this side of our mother. We followed her orders without a word, and rushed towards our room with Ai Jiě. Ah Bah merely stood in silence with our mother, tightening his grasp around her shoulder. Once far enough from our mother and father’s hearing range, a quiet whimper left my lips.

“What’s happening, Ai Jiě? Why do Ah Mah and Ah Bah look so scared?” My brothers stopped walking as well and turned toward the maid in expectancy.

She pursed her lips, avoiding our stares for a moment before answering. “Bad people are coming. We need to hide everything of value before they arrive – oh, don’t cry Mail Leng,” She pressed her calloused hands against my cheek, using her thumb to wipe away the tears that threatened to spill.

“It’s okay Mail Leng,” Ao Chun Shen reassured me, patting my head gently. “Did you forget how powerful Ah Ba is? He guards vicious prisoners everyday! Our father is a strong man and will protect us all, don’t worry, you silly melon!”

Ai Jiě nodded in approval. “Alright you three, hurry back to your rooms, and grab thick clothes and blankets. Then hang them on the clothesline outside; the neighbourhood shares the same clothesline, so the Bad People will not take the clothes.” Following Ai Jiě’s instructions we grabbed our things and rushed out. The three of us quickly draped as many clothes and blankets as possible on the clothesline, before we returned to our rooms to hide our other possessions.

But by then, it was too late.

Loud stomping approached the house. The front door was smashed open, and several soldiers dressed in typical beige uniforms swarmed into the living room.

“Wong Zi Kang, you and your family are guilty as landowners, and of potential threats to the government,” a man of dominance shouted. He jerked his head towards my father, signalling the group of soldiers behind him to spring into action. Immediately, three of them charged forward, tackling my father to the floor. The rest pushed passed Ai Jiě and Ah Mah, and began taking away everything of value, stripping our house of everything – even basic utensils and kitchenware. My mother erupted into hysterical screams and tears, but all that was drowned under the thrashing of furniture. My brothers and I watched, silently, from a safe distance.

We watched Ai Jiě embrace my mother who helplessly watched her husband cower on the floor.

We watched our father receive harsh kicks and blows, despite already being restrained.

We watched as everything was lost. Because what else could we have done?

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Chapter 4

Sarah Liu (Yin Ting) May 2015

Seven

The Chinese culture is something I’ve never been familiar with, despite of course, originating from a chinese background. My lack of understanding towards my own culture never bothered me much because, to my parents great annoyance, I see myself as Canadian, not Chinese-Canadian, but Canadian. Is that bad? Perhaps the chinese gods will strike me with lighting for that very thought.

Because of my disinterest in the culture, I’ve never paid attention to the Chinese superstitions my mother often babbled about. The Chinese are very superstitious – even numbers have certain meanings to them; numbers are either auspicious or inauspicious. The same rule applies to the number seven. The number seven in Chinese though, has several meanings: one meaning “to leave”.

At the age of seven, Sao Chong Wong lost his mother to the Japanese invasion. Later that same year, he entered an orphanage and was separated from his father and brother.

At the age of seven, Mail Leng Ao had her father taken away from her. She lost all her possessions that very same day.

Perhaps coincidences like these are what makes my mother such a strong believer of Chinese superstitions.

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ToMailLengAo:

Nothing.Theansweris“nothing”.Therewasabsolutelynothingyoucouldhavedonebackthen.Iplannedthatbothfatherandsonwoulddieadog’sdeath.Imadeyourmothercarrylabels:“damnedstinkyshe-bag”,“avulturouslandowner”,“atraitorousbitch”.Therewillalwaysbeashadowofthepasthoveringaboveyou,perhaps.

ButIhadalsoblessedyourfuturewithfortunes.Ideliveryouchildren,andIblessyouwithyetanothergranddaughter.Imadesurethatsevenwouldnolongerbeinauspicious.Remember:justassevensoundslike“toleave”italsomeans“unity”.

Anequivalentexchange,I’dthink.

YoursTruly,

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Chapter 5

Mell Ball Wong: 1985 Guangzhou, China

A Pair of Worn Shoes

“…Remember this will be on the test next week. You are all dismissed,” the professor yelled from the stage, as he swiftly slid his lecture notes back into his briefcase. I scanned through the several pages of my freshly taken notes, before sighing in exhaustion. This professor was infamous for his difficult lectures around campus. I slipped off the ribbon from my hair, releasing my black waves that reached well past my shoulders. I combed through my well-cut bangs with my fingers, in attempt to fix my appearance. “Wow, Mell Ball, your notes are so neat! And you wrote so much! Don’t tell me you actually managed to write down everything that stink-bag professor rambled about,” my friend beside me exclaimed in surprise, scanning through my well-organized papers. “Ah, well, somehow, yes.” “Could I borrow your notes? I’ll return them as soon as I finish!” She clapped her hands together, pleading with hopeful eyes. I chuckled lightly and nodded. “Sure, just make sure to return them to me by the end of this week.” She readily agreed, then took my notes, packing them into her bag. “Oh, I almost forgot. Remember the English textbook you are looking for? I tried asking my other friends, but it seems none of them have it – sorry! Have you checked the bookstores yet?” “I checked the one near my house – they were all out of stock,” I muttered wearily. “I guess I’ll have to either check the other stores in the neighbourhood, or ask around some more.” “Do you want me to help you look around? I know which English textbook you’re talking about,” A disembodied voice asked from the seat behind me. I turned around to find Min Liu staring at me with his usual carefree smile. Recovering from my surprise, I replied slowly with a hint of hesitance. “Ah, okay, thanks.” “No problem,” Min Liu replied, flashing a wide smile. He quickly grabbed his books and began to leave the classroom. I watched his receding back, still surprised that he would offer to help. We barely knew each other; we were merely two students who coincidentally took the same course, at the same university, at the same time. A small smile graced my features. He’s a strange one. My friend’s voice suddenly interrupted my thoughts. “Why in god’s name would he still be wearing that?” she pointed to his worn out runners. “Mell Ball, I swear, there are more holes in his shoes than there are buttons on his shirt! He’s the son of a General. Money is definitely not the reason.”

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Mell Ball giggled. “Yes, trust me, I’ve been wondering about that since I saw him walk into class on the first day of school!” To my great disappointment, my parents didn’t meet in a very extravagant, Hollywood-like manner. There were no sparks of attraction, no “love at first sight”. My father didn’t have blue captivating eyes, windswept lush hair, a sharp jaw line, or a tall, muscular build. In reality, Min Liu was a rather plain individual, and as my mother had quite honestly stated, “definitely not strikingly handsome”. He was neither scrawny nor lean and muscular, settling comfortably in the middle. He had dishevelled hair that occasionally swept across his eyes, the same chestnut brown coloured eyes that everyone else had. So really, that day, my mother saw absolutely nothing physically attractive of Min Liu. The only attributes that caught her interest were his willingness to help, and his worn out shoes. Nevertheless, Fate had intervened and they would stay together.

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Chapter 6

Sao Chong Wong and Mail Leng Ao: 1961 Guangzhou, China

A Bumpy Meeting

The engine of the bus rumbled loudly as it skidded off the bumps of the poorly developed roads of Guangzhou. The shakiness of the bus swayed Sao Chong’s body from side to side as he gripped the handrail tighter. Sao Chong gazed distractedly out the nearby window, his senses captivated by the silken breeze that slipped through the open window. The sun was setting, painting the surroundings with a light blush of rosy pink. Sao Chong was heading home after a lecture at a technician college he was recently assigned to; apparently the new school didn’t have enough teachers, forcing Sao Chong to fill in as one of their engineering teachers for time being. It was the first day, and the first day was always the worst. Sao Chong was practically the same age as the students he taught, so of course, there could only be two possible results: either his class would fully accept him, or they would scorn and underestimate him. As per usual, it was the latter. Who would trust the words of a scrawny teacher practically their age? A sigh of fatigue escaped him. Aside from his new teaching job at the college, he was also the head manager of a government-funded munitions research facility – not that anyone knew. It was a factory completely hidden from the public. To say he had a lot on his hands was an understatement. Suddenly, the bus took a sharp curve, pushing Sao Chong off balance. A muffled squeak from behind surprised him. Turning around, he realized that the sound had come from no other than Mail Leng Ao, one of his students from the technician college. She had her black, shoulder length hair tied tightly into two braids that nicely framed her round face. But what really caught Sao Chong’s attention was the large pear she had stuffed in her mouth. “Enjoying your afternoon snack?” he teased Mail Leng, before breaking down into a fit of laughter. She removed the pear from her mouth and smiled shyly, her face flushed with embarrassment. Rosy pink, just like the setting sky. Unbeknownst to him, this petite girl with a pear shoved in her mouth would be the one with whom he would spend the rest of his life.

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Chapter 7

Mell Ball Wong: April 21, 1999, Vancouver

Birth

I smiled at the small white bundle cradled in my arms. Soft wisps of black hair peeked through the layers of blankets as did pale pudgy arms that reached out, thrusting into the air as though struggling to grasp something. I chuckled lovingly before slowly rocking my child side to side. A quiet lullaby slipped past my lips, resonating within the hospital room, only to be interrupted when the door creaked open.

My mother slipped in, crystal beads streaming down her aged face, dripping past an overjoyed smile. I smiled back in return, and beckoned her to come hold my newborn. She shuffled over quickly, arms reaching out to finally meet her second granddaughter.

“Oh my, Ah Ball, she’s beautiful! So round and chubby – she will grow up to be very big and healthy!” She exclaimed, before lightly pecking my child on the forehead.

“Have you chosen a name for her yet?” My mother asked immediately, as she settled down by the edge of my bed, her gaze still glued to the small bundle of joy.

“Yes. Min Liu. I have decided to name her Liu Yin Ting,”

“ ‘Family’. Yes, yes, that is a good name, a good name indeed. But have you thought of an English name for the Ghost people?”

I hummed in response. “Yes, I chose ‘Sarah’. It means ‘princess’ in the Ghost people’s language, Ah Mah. Doesn’t it suit this little one? ”

My mother laughed softly, while nodding her head in approval. Her chuckle slowly died down, and was once again replaced by beads of tears.

“Oh, Ah Ball, I feel so blessed! So happy! Do I deserve such fortune?” My mother whimpered doubtfully, gazing at me with tearful eyes.

“Ah Mah,” I began gently, weakly squeezing my mother’s shoulder. “Of course you do! You worked, and you worked all your life for this happiness. You suffered so much in the past, of course you do! Both you and Ah Bah do!”

With small droplets still glistening by the corner of her eyes, my mother’s face broke out into a wide, thankful smile.

“Ah Mah, you will be happy, I promise,” I whispered, my tone warm yet firm. “You are happy.”

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I’VE SPENT a great deal of time contemplating the best way to end my story; I wanted to create the perfect ending that would beautifully frame my family’s past. For the longest time I believed that the most efficient way to end would be with the death of a character. What could be more final than death?

(Un)fortunately, I have yet to encounter the death of a loved family member, and killing someone off in a story seemed just plain cruel (and inauspicious. Not that I believe in superstitions.)

Which is why I chose another way to end. With a beginning.

A birth. My birth.

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Epilogue

Sao Chong Wong: 2015, Vancouver

Final Words

Dear Yin Ting,

You are my beloved granddaughter. My youngest granddaughter, and in my eyes, the prettiest granddaughter in existence too (don’t tell your elder sister this, though. It can be our little secret.)

I’ve watched over you since the day you were conceived and brought to this world, wrapped up like a white bundle of joy.

I’ve watched you grow up to be a toddler, waddling around on your two pudgy feet. You always looked like you would fall – you were always so unsteady, shaking like a leaf in late autumn! But to my surprise, you never did.

And now, I watch you grow even more. Many years have passed; you are now even taller than me! Your once shaky legs are now strong enough to help you stand against the world.

All throughout your childhood, I showered you with my stories. I certainly hope they were as interesting to you as they were for me. I knew your curiosity towards my past was growing as the years went by. And so when you asked to interview me, that one late February day, I finally told you the basic skeleton of my past – without any filtering at all. I’ve still missed out quite a lot, but only because I’ve forgotten about the details myself – it’s impossible to completely share one’s life story, from cradle to grave, after all.

But either way, what matters the most is not my past, but your future. Don’t ever let the shadows of the past obscure the light of your future.

I can tell that you are scared, and worried about your future. Everyone is at one point. But everything will be alright in the end. Your parents, grandma and I made sure of that when we immigrated here, to Canada.

Ah, yes, I almost forgot. When I told you about my “dream”, also for your English assignment, I left out my father’s parting words. I hope it’s not too late to tell you now. Before I left for the orphanage with the Director, my father grasped me tightly by the shoulders, and said:

“Remember, you are my . . . greatest hope.”

I wish to pass on these words to you. I hope they will become words that stay forever in your heart, because they did in mine. No matter what you choose in the future, no matter what happens, You will still be my granddaughter, my greatest hope. Love, Sao Chong Wong.