A Mouthful of Batter, an Inch of Mortal Life

In 1957, my mother was born prematurely, a frail little baby weighing just over four jin. She survived thanks to a bowl of flour porridge from her aunt. She briefly knew the care of her aunt and uncle, but lost her father when she was only two. Later, her aunt married far away, and her relatives went their separate ways, leaving her to struggle through life with her grandmother under the cold stares and taunts of the extended family. The years pushed her into adulthood, marriage, and motherhood. But deep in her heart, she always carried the child who had suffered so much, yearned for someone to protect her, and never truly grew up.