She Is Cheaper Than Rice

That year, for a bag of millet, Yu Xiaofeng was promised by her parents to the silly son of the Liu family in a neighboring village. It was the northern countryside during the famine years of the last century. The stove was higher than the person, and the ice was used to wash the clothes in the cold winter. Her hands were covered with frostbite and pus, and she did not dare to cry. When they consummated their marriage at the age of seventeen, Dazhu didn't understand anything, so he tied her to a chair with a hemp rope and spent the whole night. In the next twenty years, she had six pregnancies, and four survived - feeding her with blood as milk, using three yuan from selling her hair to change her son's medicine, and using a sickle with a gap in the mouth to seek justice for her daughter who was forced to jump off a building. She didn't cry when her mother-in-law's awl pierced her thigh, but when Zhaodi limped and asked, "Mom, does it hurt?", She cried. She taught her four children one thing with her life - people can live on their knees, but they cannot die on their knees. Before she died, she hid a note in a small wooden box, with the only sentence she could write in her life crookedly written on it: "I love my children." A marriage crushed by the times, a mother who blossomed in the mud. Please have tissues ready before opening.