Zhang Zhaodi died at the age of forty-three.
When she opened her eyes again, she was back in the living room of her parents’ home in the summer of 1995, lying on a bed made of two wooden planks. Her fever still hadn’t broken, and her mother’s shrill scolding rang in her ears.
In her last life, she was “Zhaodi,” sold off in exchange for a bride price. She dropped out of primary school to look after her younger brother, was married off at eighteen to the notorious son of a paper mill director, endured beatings and humiliation, then died of illness in a hospital at forty-three. No one came to claim her body.
My son-obsessed parents, my parasitic younger brother, my abusive husband: get lost this time around! Stay out of my life!
This time, I’m going to live for myself!
And Zhaodi? What kind of ridiculous name is that? I have to change it!
