In her previous life, Jiang Yanhui got married.
Her grandmother took three hundred yuan in bride price and married her off to the son of the neighboring brigade secretary. Her husband drank and beat her after their wedding, and she endured it for thirty years, raising two children with nothing but a sewing machine. At forty-eight, she died alone on a bench in the county hospital corridor.
When she opened her eyes again, it was 1983.
The day before her engagement was to be called off.
The iron pot still hissed on the stove, the jujube tree in the courtyard was still green, and her little brother sat on the threshold, gnawing on a sweet potato. She touched her face. Her left cheek burned where her grandmother had slapped her.
This time, she wouldn’t get married.
She tucked away her savings book, loaded the sewing machine onto a handcart, took her little brother by the hand, and left.
Before long, everyone in the county knew of Miss Jiang, who made clothes on Yongning Street. She was skilled, charged fair prices, and had a stubborn streak. Later, everyone knew she was a ten-thousand-yuan household.
And later still, there was a man in uniform who showed up at her shop every day.
“Comrade Jiang, the sleeves on this padded jacket are too short.”
“If they’re too short, I’ll remake it.”
“No need. Just measure my arm length, and make the next one longer.”
She looked up at him. He stood before the counter in a crisp military uniform, the tips of his ears red.
