In 1978, educated youth Zhou Jianguo died of illness in a rural primary school, leaving behind his fiancée Fang Lizhen and their unborn child. From then on, Fang Lizhen supported her life alone: working as an accountant, working on a sewing machine, and raising her daughter Fang Xiaohong. She locked the secret in the drawer, swallowed back her tears, and told her daughter, "Daddy lives on the moon."
Fang Xiaohong loved singing since she was a child, and her teacher said she could be a singer. But my mother said "no" time and time again. She had hated and made trouble, and she didn't understand why her mother wanted to break her wings.
It wasn't until she opened the red notebook that she finally understood: her mother was not born strong, she just hid her weakness. Those "can'ts" are not because they don't love, but because they are too afraid of losing. The man living on the moon was my father who really died in the spring of 1978.
Three generations, fifty years, a secret. Grandma Fang Xiuhua was even more silent, leaving only her back sitting alone in the kitchen late at night, eating cucumbers and drinking Erguotou. They don't say "I love you" but spend their whole lives doing it.
Finally they understood: there is no Chang'e on the moon, there is only an ordinary young man, his wife, mother, daughter and granddaughter. They are all together. Those ordinary people who look up to the moonlight, generation after generation, finally learn to forgive and understand.
