Writing at Seventy Is Not Too Late in Life

In the late 1950s, Li Xiuyu was born in Northwest China. When she was twenty-three years old, her parents promised her to veteran Liu Jun - a short, sweet-tongued man who knew how to get things done, and they married her while carrying a bag of apples. Forty years after their marriage, Liu Jun climbed the ranks from driver to vice-principal. His career became bigger and bigger, and his heart wandered further and further. Xiuyu worked in the boiler room, raised her daughter, brought up her granddaughter, and swallowed everything she saw, heard, and guessed. It's not that she hasn't thought about leaving. The daughter is still young, the granddaughter is still young, wait until they can stand firm. Wait and wait until I am seventy-two years old. When her granddaughter was admitted to college and admitted to Xiamen University, she finally laid out the evidence she had held for forty years in court - suing her husband for his extramarital affair, suing the masseuse for fraud, and suing the arranged marriage that had trapped her for her whole life. After her divorce, the paintings she had been painting for most of her life were suddenly seen. From the boiler room in Jincheng to the seaside in Xiamen, from the Populus euphratica forest in Dunhuang to the exhibition hall in Paris. Her granddaughter Maomao stayed with her and translated the unspeakable words for her into a language that the world could understand. This story is about a woman who spent most of her life waiting for a door to open, and finally discovered that the door opened by herself. Intention: What he owed her in the first half of his life, she wanted to get it all back in the second half of his life. Not revenge, but getting back the person she was in her twenties