Twenty years in Kunshan is enough for a girl from a foreign land to make her hometown her hometown.
When I first arrived, my suitcase was stuffed with simple luggage and an ignorant longing for the future. The bluestone road under my feet was cool, and the soft Wu Nong language was in my ears, which was both fresh and alienating. She had rushed through countless plans under the lights of the office building, repeated boring actions on the assembly line in the workshop, and on a winter night when she came home late from overtime work, a cup of hot soy milk handed to her by an aunt at a roadside stall warmed her eyes.
This city has witnessed her transformation from a young girl to a gentle mother: meeting the person who made her heart beat faster at the corner of the library, planning the future with him on the small rented balcony, watching the child staggering into her arms for the first time... There was the joy of getting the first bonus, and the grievance of being frustrated in the workplace; she received a bowl of hot soup silently handed over by her neighbor, and she also tasted the subtle warmth and warmth in human relationships.
In the past fifteen years, new greenways have been added to the rivers in Kunshan, and her home has transformed from a single room with a monthly rent of several hundred to a small nest with bright windows. The struggle, love, fireworks and tenderness hidden in the years have long been intertwined with the morning bells and evening drums of this city, and have become the most vivid mark in life - this place has long been her second hometown connected by blood.
