If you marry a girl in Songjiang County, you must cry to her mother-in-law.
Ah Heng has been singing for ten years, thirty pieces per performance, singing the grievances and reluctance of the newlyweds. Others thought she was selling her voice to earn a living, but they didn't know that every time she sang, she would write down the actual amount of the dowry, the details of her husband's family, and the contacts between her in-laws.
More than three hundred marriages in the past ten years are all engraved in her mind, like a ledger that no one can see.
The married daughter of the Wang family was kicked into the mud after she sang about the fraud of her dowry; the married daughter of the Li family had her neck pressed down, but she still sang the truth about the empty shell of her husband's family in public. Amidst the uproar in the whole hall, someone showed the bronze medal of the censor and blocked the slap for her.
The man asked her: Your mother died in the same way back then, do you want to repent?
Only then did Ah Heng realize that her mother's last job ten years ago was when the county magistrate borrowed money from his married daughter to make money. One person drowned and the other became a walking ledger.
What she wants to uncover is not just an old case.
It's the fishy smell that lingers throughout Songjiang County hidden under the red silk wedding candle.
Intention: Hard work can break the desperate situation