My grandfather, Arthur, had always looked down on my grandmother, Eleanor, despising her for her lack of education and subjecting her to a constant barrage of criticism. When she asked me to buy her a box of hair dye online, he flew into a rage. In front of the whole town, he bellowed: “You’ve got one foot in the grave, what’s the point of all this? You think dyeing your hair will make you immortal?” “An old woman trying to look young—it’s pathetic! You’re just a waste of money!” But this same old man, who thought every penny spent on my grandmother was a waste, soon went online and ostentatiously bought 999 roses. The recipient was another old woman. … 1 My grandfather came home while I was in the yard, dyeing my grandmother’s hair. She was only in her early sixties, but her hair was already completely white. If not for her sturdy constitution, you’d think she was pushing eighty. She rarely bothered with her appearance, but her old friend’s birthday was next week, and they had all planned to take a commemorative photo together. “Nina, they won’t laugh at me after this, will they?” The older generation dreaded gossip, and now her confidence was wavering. I kept my hands moving, quickly and efficiently applying the dye to her hair. “What’s there to laugh at? Everyone in the city dyes their hair. If they laugh, it just shows how ignorant they are! Don’t worry, Grandma, it’ll look great! You’ll look at least twenty years younger, I promise!” Women of all ages want to feel beautiful. Though she was a little embarrassed, I could see the anticipation sparkling in her eyes. “You silly girl, you and your wild ideas…” But before she could finish, a sharp voice cut her off. “What is this?” My grandfather, back from his calligraphy class in the city, stood at the courtyard gate, his brow deeply furrowed. “Is this how you waste your money on useless things?” Everyone in our small town knew my grandparents didn’t get along. The sound of their arguing drew a crowd. It was hard to say whether more people came to mediate or to watch the show. Surrounded by onlookers, my grandmother fidgeted, her face flushed red as she tried to explain. But my grandfather had no patience to listen. He pounded his cane on the ground. “Is there any point? No amount of dye will change the fact that you’re halfway to the grave! Instead of wasting money on this foolishness, you should be buying fertilizer for the fields!” In stark contrast to my grandmother’s weathered appearance, my grandfather, who did no physical labor, was robust and full of vigor. He was nearly seventy but looked fifty. When he cursed, his voice was strong and resonant. I couldn’t stand it anymore. I stepped in front of my grandmother, who was stammering and trying to shrink away. “Grandma does all the work and earns the money. What’s wrong with her dyeing her hair? There’s a limit to how much you can freeload off her. Why don’t you use the money from your calligraphy classes to buy fertilizer?” To my surprise, my grandfather didn’t get angry. He laughed. “What do you know? If it weren’t for her, do you think a college graduate like me would be trapped in this godforsaken town? She works because her conscience is guilty! Because she knows she owes me and wants to make it up to me!” I wanted to say more, but my grandmother tugged on my sleeve, her eyes pleading. “Don’t… don’t say any more…” But seeing her reaction, my grandfather seemed determined to twist the knife. He pointed at the crowd, his voice growing louder with every word. “Look at them! A college graduate married to an illiterate farm girl! Don’t you think every single one of them is laughing at me in secret? You’re concerned about your pride now? Where was your pride when you used your dirty tricks to force me to marry you?” Faced with his accusations, my grandmother’s lips trembled. Words rose to her lips, only to be swallowed back down. Her cloudy eyes filled with tears, which she fought back with gritted teeth. I knew there was a story behind their marriage, but this clearly wasn’t the time to dig it up. My grandmother didn’t want to fight, so I could only help her inside. But my grandfather’s voice followed us, relentless. “An old woman acting so indecently, wasting money. Eleanor, aren’t you ashamed of embarrassing me even more?” I closed the door. When I turned around, my grandmother looked like a child who had done something wrong. She clutched my sleeve, her eyes brimming with tears. “Nina, can we return the unopened box? I don’t want to dye it anymore.” 2 I shook my head. “It’s your money. No one can tell you how to spend it. Your friends are waiting for you to look beautiful for your picture. Grandma, don’t let other people’s opinions change you. You’ve never done anything wrong.” I don’t know which words struck a chord with her, but after a moment of silence, she slowly nodded. After removing the plastic wrap and washing her hair, I held up a mirror. A smile finally touched my grandmother’s swollen, red eyes. I breathed a sigh of relief. I was about to say something else to cheer her up when her expression darkened. “Nina, do you really think I’ve done nothing wrong?” I was taken aback, then nodded vigorously. It suddenly occurred to me that, aside from me, perhaps no one had ever affirmed her in all these years. My grandfather, the self-proclaimed intellectual, never lifted a finger around the house. He looked down on the town, and he looked down on her even more. Not insulting her was the best she could hope for; approval was out of the question. Besides me, on my school holidays, she had no one to talk to. She was lonely, her confidence constantly shaken. I rushed to comfort her, a stream of reassuring words tumbling out. She listened quietly, wiping the corners of her eyes. “You’re a modern college student. You know more than your grandfather. Hearing you say that makes me feel better.” Her words reminded me of what my grandfather had said earlier. I hesitated, wondering if I should ask. But she seemed to read my mind and sighed, her gaze drifting off into the distance, as if she were looking back many years. “Your grandfather is right. If not for an accident, he wouldn’t have married me.” More than forty years ago, the town had produced two college students: my grandfather, Arthur, and my grandmother’s best friend, Vivian. The three of them had grown up together. My grandmother had a secret crush on my grandfather, but she knew she wasn’t good enough for him. When she saw that he and Vivian had feelings for each other, she quietly stepped aside. Everyone said they were a perfect match. They were about to get engaged when Vivian, whom she hadn’t heard from in a long time, suddenly asked to meet. “You like Arthur, don’t you? Let me help you.” My grandmother, unsuspecting, drank a cup of tea and lost consciousness. When she woke up, she was in bed with my grandfather, both of them barely clothed, both of them passed out. Villagers burst in and found them. In those days, in a town like ours, reputation was everything. The engagement was called off. My grandfather, scorned by the community, was forced to marry my grandmother. From that day on, he hated her. He believed she had schemed to ruin his life. As she told me this, my grandmother’s face was calm, but her eyes held a sorrow that words couldn’t describe. There were still holes in the story. If I could just figure them out, maybe I could resolve their conflict. I asked, “What happened to Vivian?” “She—” The door was kicked open with a loud bang. My grandfather stood there, his face dark, his teeth gritted. “Are you trying to be some tragic heroine, dredging up this old dirt over and over? Aren’t you ashamed? Stop poisoning the child’s mind with your nonsense!” My grandmother flinched, instinctively shrinking back. She might not have known what a “tragic heroine” was, but she knew it wasn’t a compliment. She swallowed her words and forced an awkward smile at me. And in that moment, I finally understood. The conflict between them wasn't unresolved because my grandmother didn't want to fix it. It was because my grandfather never gave her a chance to explain. 3 We didn’t speak of it again. After the New Year, it was time for me to go back to school. My grandmother, perhaps sensing my worry, squeezed my hand, then let it go. “Don’t worry. I’ve made it this far. What could possibly happen? Just study hard. That’s the best way you can repay me.” I didn’t dare look back as I left, afraid to see the reluctance in her eyes. I never imagined that this ordinary farewell would almost be the last time I saw her. After the holidays, another snowstorm hit the state. On a whim, I opened the security camera app for our home, wanting to see what my grandmother was doing. All I saw was my grandfather, alone in the yard, practicing his Tai Chi. I was about to switch camera angles when I noticed a pile of spilled feed near the pigsty. My grandmother was lying motionless in the snow nearby. I didn’t know how long she had been there. Only her dog was pacing anxiously around her. I was horrified. I thought perhaps my grandfather hadn’t seen her, so I was about to turn on the two-way audio to alert him. But then, in the next second, he coldly stepped over her and went inside, without so much as a glance in her direction. By the time I rushed from my school to the hospital, my grandmother was out of danger but still unconscious. My grandfather saw me, his expression cold. He grabbed his coat from the back of a chair and started to leave. “If the medical staff hadn’t required it, I wouldn’t be wasting my time here. I’m leaving. I have a calligraphy class tomorrow. An old woman like her, falling down like that. This hospital stay is just going to be another waste of money. Useless.” Before he left, he shot an impatient glare at my grandmother on the bed. I watched him walk out of the room. I had no desire to stop him. Growing up, it always felt like there were three people in our house, but at the same time, it felt like there were only two: me and my grandmother. My father had died young, and my mother had remarried. It was my grandmother who had raised me. My grandfather was like a ghost, a lodger in his own home. As long as I could remember, they had slept in separate rooms. No one was allowed in his room. I had snuck in once as a child and had seen it was filled with old photographs, all of a strange woman. I never told my grandmother, but now, I suspect she knew all along. I was well aware of my grandfather’s cold-heartedness. I wasn’t disappointed, just heartbroken for my grandmother’s years of suffering. I went to tuck her in, but I saw her eyes were open. I didn’t know how much of my grandfather’s tirade she had heard. Her expression was neutral, and I was relieved. I didn’t want to upset her by asking. Holding her hand, I finally felt the fear catch up to me. Her fall hadn’t been that serious, but if the ambulance hadn’t been called in time, she could have frozen to death in the yard. But looking at her tired eyes, I swallowed the words I wanted to say. To my surprise, she was the one who broke the silence, her voice unexpectedly calm. “When I fell, I didn’t pass out right away. I called for him to help me. He ignored me. I thought that after all this time, it would be in the past. But after a lifetime together, he still hates me. Hates me enough to watch me freeze to death. Why? Aren’t people supposed to have hearts?” She stared blankly at the ceiling, her face full of confusion, as if she were speaking to herself, questioning fate. I couldn’t imagine what she must have felt when he ignored her pleas for help. And I had no answer to her question now. All I could do was squeeze her hand, fighting back my own tears. 4 My grandfather never visited her once before she was discharged. After I finished the discharge paperwork, she finally looked away from the hospital room door. She didn’t say anything, but I could see the disappointment on her face. I tried to distract her, telling her the car would be there soon and suggesting she look at her phone. A few moments later, she leaned over, pointing at the screen. “Nina, what does this say?” I looked. It was a video posted on my grandfather’s account. A massive bouquet of flowers was being carried out of a car by two people and presented to an elegantly dressed woman. Time had been kind to her, adding a certain charm to her features. It was Vivian. She beamed, throwing her arms around my grandfather, who stood beside her. And this old man, who I had only ever known to be stern and unsmiling, was looking at her with a tenderness I had never seen before. My hands trembled as I tapped on the caption. A long, dense block of text, a forty-year ode to unrequited love. In that moment, I was incredibly grateful that my grandmother couldn’t read. Because at the end of the caption, a single, dismissive line—no other love could ever compare—erased forty years of her devotion and suffering. But even without the caption, the video said it all. Even I could guess who the woman was. I couldn’t believe that my grandmother, as her old friend, wouldn’t recognize her. I forced a smile. “It’s nothing, Grandma. Don’t ask.” Perhaps my smile was too strained. She nodded quietly, then reached up and cupped my face with her rough palm. “I won’t ask, I won’t ask. It’s okay, Nina, my sweet girl. Don’t cry.” But I could feel her own hand trembling. She wasn’t a strong woman. When faced with trouble, she would have a good cry before figuring out what to do. But since the hair dye incident, it seemed her tears had run dry. On the way home, I tried to make conversation several times, but her absentmindedness always cut me short. I was worried she might do something foolish. But I soon realized my fears were unfounded. As we reached the town entrance, she suddenly grabbed my hand, her voice hesitant but tinged with a new determination. “Nina, you’re educated. I want to ask you something.” “What is it?” “Can people our age get a divorce? Do old people in the city get divorced?” I was stunned, then overjoyed. I had always been afraid she wouldn’t want to go through the trouble at her age, afraid of the gossip, so I had never suggested it. I never imagined she would come up with the idea herself. Fearing she might change her mind, I nodded enthusiastically. “Yes! Lots of old people in the city get divorced! Grandma, are you thinking…” When she spoke again, her voice was much firmer. “This has haunted me my whole life. I’m tired of it. She was the one who pushed Arthur on me against my will. Now that she’s back, I’m giving him back to her!” On the walk home, her steps grew more and more resolute. When we reached the gate, we saw my grandfather heading out, carrying a beautifully wrapped box. “I need to talk to you.” He ignored her, as usual, not even sparing her a glance. As he was about to walk away, my grandmother’s voice rang out, louder and more determined than before. “Arthur, I want a divorce!” My grandfather finally stopped. He turned and gave her a sarcastic sneer. “You’re the one who shamelessly used dirty tricks to marry me. What kind of game are you playing now?” “I saw the video you posted.” My grandmother was unfazed by his insults. She repeated, her voice firm, “I want a divorce!”
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