In 1992, Zhou Shufen, a woman from Northeast China, "blindly married" to Hebei Province with her eight-year-old daughter. It took two days on the train to see clearly what my husband looked like on the wedding day - thick eyebrows, big eyes, and his ears were rosy during the toast. She has a loud voice and a short temper, but she can weave gentleness from stitch to stitch; he is taciturn, his fists are faster than his mouth, and he is as clumsy as a piece of wood. Two broken families, four people with scars, bravely pieced together a family in the 1990s when the wave of reform was raging. Her stepson, Okawa, saw her as an enemy and put spiders on her pillow. She was not used to it, so she picked up the collar on the back of her neck and said, "Where's the plastic thing?" But when he had a fever of 39 degrees, she picked him up and ran, carrying him all the way to the factory hospital. From the roaring workshop of the textile factory to the vegetable market after the abolition of food stamps, from the layoff crisis to the southward tide, they quarreled, broke enamel jars, had cold wars, and reconciled in the turbulent times. Six years later, Dachuan was admitted to college and suddenly knelt down and called her "Mom." She turned away and scolded her as a "little bastard", but her face was stained with tears. Ten years later, there were four children running around the yard, and there was an extra bowl on the dining table - for Dachuan's mother. "Let the child's mother also see it. Our family is fine." A story about reorganizing a family. A mother and son who are not related by blood, a couple who married blindly, noisily lived their lives as a family in the fireworks world of the 1990s.
