Just Let It Be

by Huina Zheng

My mother called me again and said, “There are three ways to be unfilial; having no offsprings is the worst. Keep in mind your responsibility as a son —”

I interrupted her and said, “Mom, don’t try to persuade me anymore. I already have Linlin.”

“If your poor father were still alive, what would he say?”

“Linlin is my child.” After saying that, I hung up the phone.

I knew what she wanted to express. No matter how much we love Linlin, she is still an adopted daughter, not my biological child. I don’t doubt my mother’s love for Linlin. We adopted Linlin a few days after her birth, and my mother helped take care of her in the first year. However, China’s traditional culture of “carrying on the family line” profoundly influenced her, making her believe that I would have no descendants if I didn’t have a child related to me.

* * *

My wife Lan once asked me, “Do you want a biological child? If you do, we should try in-vitro fertilization before I turn 35. Babies born to older mothers will have a higher risk of certain chromosomal conditions.”

She added, “I know many a man will find a young woman to give him a son. People expect the wife to understand. After all, she has failed. If you cheat, I will definitely divorce you.”

She looked at me dubiously; she must have made up her mind that if I did this, she would leave with Linlin.

Lan and I are of the same age. She was admitted to a prestigious university in Guangzhou, less than 20 minutes’ drive from my home. My mother and her mother were childhood playmates, so my mother often invited her for dinner during holidays. In the first few years, I just regarded her as the daughter of my mother’s friend, and we would only nod to greet each other when we met.

But after graduating college, I “accidentally” read her blog. Her personal essays showed me who she really was: a strong, motivated, and independent young woman. She came from a family that valued sons over daughters. In her family, like most families in China, a daughter was just another family’s future daughter-in-law, and only their son was their own child. She had worked hard to get past that gender barrier. She had the strength that I lacked. Days passed, and she was always on my mind.

We fell in love and married within a year. However, I was always worried about her leaving me. I didn’t know why she loved me; she was too good for me. I couldn’t find a suitable job for a year after graduation, but she worked part-time during college to support herself and found a well-paid job before graduating.

Later, I worked in the Guangzhou Metro, and the salary was low in the first few years. She always told me, “It’s good that you found a job that suits you. Don’t worry about the money. We’ll work hard together.”

I was never close to my parents. Shortly after I was born, my parents left me behind in the village to be cared for by my grandmother while they went to Guangzhou to find work. Transportation was inconvenient then, and I could see my parents only during the Chinese Spring Festival. Later, when I was about to enter elementary school, my parents sent me to Shenzhen to go to school and live with my aunt for over a year.

Lan told me that maybe this experience made me insecure, always worrying that she would leave me. She looked at me and said, “I will never leave you. We will grow old together.”

To save enough for the down payment on a flat, we lived frugally and used birth control after marriage, fearing that we couldn’t afford a child. Although my mother kept urging us to have a baby, we resisted. When we were 29, we started trying to get pregnant but were unsuccessful. After a medical examination, the doctor explained that Lan couldn’t conceive children and the only way to get pregnant was through in-vitro fertilization.

Earlier that year, the Chinese government ended its one-child policy and, instead, let families have two children. We decided to adopt a baby and name her Linlin.

We still considered having another child of our own someday.

* * *

Taking care of a baby was so much harder than we had expected. Although my mother helped us care for Linlin during the day, Lan and I had no time in the evenings and weekends.

Linlin often woke up and cried around 1 a.m. She cried louder when I held her; she wanted only her mother. Lan slept less than four hours a day.

There were also financial pressures. We had just bought an apartment and didn’t have much money left after paying the monthly mortgage. Milk powder, diapers, and various baby supplies cost a lot. Would we have the energy or money to take care of another child? Could we afford it?

A female colleague of mine, Xue, was trying in-vitro fertilization. She complained every day. She said she was given injections daily until her belly was bruised. Once, after the egg retrieval, her stomach swelled like a balloon, she bled profusely to the point of coma, and she almost lost her life, but she still had to try.

“Do you know the egg-retrieval needle is longer than my forearm?” Xue’s eyes turned red when she said this. She had nine in-vitro fertilizations and more than a thousand injections in three years before she had her daughter.

After listening to my colleague’s story, I couldn’t bear to let my wife endure such pain.

Lan asked me several times if I wanted a biological child, and I shook my head. I knew she didn’t want it, either. She did not accept that birthing a son was a woman’s greatest value or that a woman was complete only after having a child. Her independence appealed to me. But she was still under tremendous pressure from family and friends. Every time she asked, I shook my head firmly.

We are both Hakkas. “Hakka people have a strong preference for sons over daughters. Why don’t you want a son of your own?” Lan asked.

Most of my peers were forced by their parents to have a son after getting married; if the first-born was a girl, they would abort the second baby girl until the wife could have a son. However, higher education prevented Lan from being brainwashed by the patriarchal society and allowed me to escape the shackles of male supremacy. I would help with housework and care for Linlin, which was one reason why Lan married me.

If she never got pregnant, I would love her just as much.

Another time, Lan told me, “Don’t think that if you bring up a son, he will provide for your old age.”

I knew what she meant. Her grandmother had four sons, but only Lan’s father cared for her when she was sick in bed; her other three sons refused to even visit her. Lan doesn’t believe that a son is a guarantee of retirement; I don’t have that idea either.

We love Linlin not because we want her to care for us in our old age. We both bought into our pension and don’t want to be a burden on Linlin when we are old.

My mother is anxious that we don’t want a biological child. In her notion, the husband is the backbone of the family and the one with the final say. She believes that Lan will agree only as long as I want a child.

Before Linlin was two years old, my brother’s wife birthed a daughter, so my mother went to their city to help look after the baby. To take care of Linlin, Lan chose to work from home.

Lan doesn’t want to be a stay-at-home mother, and my income isn’t enough to support a family of four.

* * *

Linlin is seven years old, and Lan and I deeply love her. People always like to say that she looks like me. My mother occasionally tells me to have another child.

Our days go on peacefully for the most part.

Sometimes Lan asks me, “When Linlin grows up, are we going to tell her the truth?”

In our country, adopting a child should be kept a secret. Many adoptive parents are worried that once their children know the truth, they will look for and return to their biological parents or that they will be unable to accept it and may even have thoughts of committing suicide.

But we don’t know what will happen to Linlin when she grows up. All I can say to Lan is, “Just let it be.”