Pengpeng was actually a pretty quiet child.
Maybe it was because of her heart condition. Every movement took more effort for her, so she wasn't like some children who couldn't sit still for even a moment.
I watched other people's children running around and sometimes wondered if Pengpeng was missing out on something. Since she couldn't play like the other kids, would she feel hurt or resentful?
But she didn't seem to think about it that much.
Quiet though she was,
when she wanted to crawl, she crawled just fine.
And when she really wanted to wriggle out of someone else's arms, she had plenty of strength.
She had her own rhythm and her own temper.
And this little princess had very definite opinions about food, too.
Because of her heart, I was especially careful when preparing her meals. The less salt, the better.
I always felt that since her heart was already working harder than other people's, anything I could do to lessen its burden was worth doing.
The problem was—
Mom had her considerations, and the little princess had her own taste buds.
If I cooked something with absolutely no flavor, she'd take one bite and realize something was wrong.
Then she'd turn her head away.
No.
If I offered the spoon again?
Her expression practically said:
Get lost.
Sometimes she'd make me so mad I had to laugh.
I was clearly doing it for her own good, and I'd been so careful preparing everything, yet with one turn of her head, she was telling me: This isn't what I want.
It was only later that I realized she wasn't a poor eater.
She just had very strong opinions about what she liked.
One day, I got a craving.
I'd loved Kele Guo since I was little.
I knew perfectly well how salty it was, but I still couldn't resist opening a bag.
As I ate, I noticed a pair of eyes staring fixedly at me from beside me.
Pengpeng.
She looked at the Kele Guo in my hand, then reached out her little hand.
“You want some, too?”
She did.
I hesitated for a long time.
“This is really salty.”
I was genuinely conflicted. I was usually so careful about her diet, and now I had to decide whether to give her a tiny piece of salty snack. I knew she couldn't have much, but the look in her eyes was just too serious.
In the end, I broke off a small piece and gave it to her.
Oh, boy.
From then on, she knew Kele Guo.
And she clearly approved.
After that, whenever she saw the bag, her eyes lit up immediately.
All I could do was remind myself that a little once in a while was okay, as long as it wasn't too much.
Taking care of her didn't mean taking away everything she liked. It meant helping her learn what she could eat and how much she could have.
By the time she was a little older, around six or seven months, she could sit more steadily and had several teeth. Sometimes it wasn't even a matter of giving her a small piece. She'd simply snatch the whole bag away.
I'd hold up children's rice crackers or little steamed buns and ask her:
“Do you want a cracker?”
No.
“Then what do you want?”
The little princess had her own answer.
“I want Kele.”
Kele.
That was Kele Guo.
This preference probably was at least a little hereditary.
Watching her look so happy over a bag of Kele Guo, I suddenly felt that she really wasn't any different from other children.
She was picky. She stole things. And she couldn't stop thinking about the flavors she loved.
She wasn't a child I had to wrap up in medical records and precautions every minute of every day.
She was simply a child with her own preferences.
Besides Kele Guo, she also took an interest in my coffee.
At my old workplace, there was no hot-water dispenser, so I couldn't conveniently make my own coffee. Over time, I got into the habit of buying a bottle of Mr. Brown Mandheling at the convenience store every morning.
That day, I was holding Pengpeng and drinking my coffee at the same time.
As I drank, I noticed she was watching me again.
And she was completely absorbed.
“What is it? You want some, too?”
She looked at me.
“This is kind of bitter.”
She actually nodded.
I thought, She's just a little kid. If I let her taste it, it'll be so bitter she'll take one sip and give up.
So I held the straw out to her.
She took a sip.
I waited for her to wrinkle her nose.
She didn't.
She actually wanted more.
How strange.
A lot of people complained that this coffee was bitter, yet this little thing could drink it just fine.
From then on, whenever she got close enough to my Mandheling, she always found a way to sneak a taste.
I knew a child shouldn't really drink much coffee, so every time I let her have only a tiny taste, just a lick or a sip.
But with that satisfied look on her face, it was hard to think of her as a patient who needed to be carefully kept away from everything.
She turned up her nose at flavorless porridge.
She loved salty Kele.
She loved bitter Mandheling, too.
All I could say was that this child's taste buds followed rules of their own.
And through these little things, I slowly began to see her as a whole child.
Not just a heart. Not just a pacemaker. Not just a list of precautions from her doctors.
She had things she liked and things she hated. She had her own temper. And she was even interested in the coffee in her mother's hand.
These seemingly insignificant moments, of all things, made me feel more and more like an ordinary mother.
I worried about her eating too much salt, and I laughed when she stole snacks. I reminded her that she couldn't drink too much coffee, and I could only watch helplessly when she succeeded in sneaking a sip.
On free afternoons, if someone at the pharmacy could help keep an eye on things, I'd put Pengpeng in her stroller and take her out for a walk.
We never had any particular destination.
We just went out to stretch our legs and see the world outside.
Before she could sit completely steadily, she would recline comfortably in the stroller.
She was very good. Unlike some children who kept twisting and trying to sit up, she would simply let me push her along in peace.
I was still a little careful whenever I took her out.
Too much heat was out of the question. We couldn't walk for too long, and I had to be careful in crowded places.
But I didn't want her body to be the reason she could only stay inside the pharmacy.
She deserved to see the people on the street, the trees, the sunlight, the world outside.
Sometimes, if we passed a temple, I'd push her inside to pray.
We even took her to have her fortune told once.
One time, we met a senior female practitioner, and I told her roughly about Pengpeng's condition.
The woman looked at her, then studied her for a while.
Finally, she said:
“Hm. This child doesn't look like she's destined to have a short life.”
I heard her, but I simply kept the words in my heart.
At that time, there really wasn't anything visibly wrong with Pengpeng.
She ate, cried, crawled, and grew teeth. She even stole my Kele Guo.
There was something unusual about her body, but that didn't mean her days consisted only of hospitals and examinations.
During the Qingming Festival, she came with us to visit Grandpa's grave.
It was very hot, so we held up a parasol to shade her from the sun.
Everyone knew her body couldn't handle too much exertion, so once we'd finished, we didn't dare linger outside. We took her home quickly.
We protected her.
But we didn't shut her out of life because of her body.
That was something I slowly learned.
Protection didn't mean hiding her away.
Protection meant letting her live alongside us within safe limits.
Of course, accidents still happened.
One time, my older daughter and my cousin came back to the store and watched TV upstairs.
I had to work downstairs, so I specifically told them:
“Take good care of your little sister!”
They both promised they would.
Then the TV came on, and they forgot everything else.
Not long afterward, while I was downstairs, I suddenly heard a loud burst of crying from upstairs.
“Waaah!”
I knew something was wrong the moment I heard it and immediately rushed upstairs.
Pengpeng had already fallen off the bed.
I was frantic and furious.
“How were you two supposed to be watching her?”
I scolded them, but the first thing I did was check whether Pengpeng was hurt.
She was very thin and didn't have much padding, so the pacemaker was extremely noticeable.
Normally, after looking at it for so long, I almost felt used to its presence.
But after that fall, my heart immediately leaped into my throat again.
Had she hit it?
Could it have affected the pacemaker?
Could something have changed?
In that moment, I remembered again—
she ultimately wasn't a completely ordinary child.
It was just that we'd forgotten most days.
As I held her and examined her, I was thrown back into that original fear.
That tiny pacemaker was usually just another part of her body. But the moment she fell, cried differently, or her complexion changed even slightly, I would immediately remember it was there.
I knew I couldn't be overly tense all the time.
But what mother can really stay that calm?
All I could do was check whether she was hurt while telling myself: Focus on what is in front of you. Hold your baby securely. Make sure she's safe first.
Only after her crying gradually stopped did I realize that my palms were covered in sweat.
After that, I became more specific when giving the children instructions.
Not because I wanted to treat Pengpeng like a child no one was allowed to touch, but because I knew she needed everyone to take a little more responsibility.
She could play, crawl, and live alongside everyone else.
But everyone also needed to understand that taking care of her couldn't mean watching TV and nothing else.
The pharmacy's customers loved Pengpeng, too.
One longtime customer I'd known for more than ten years was the chief engineer at the General Post Office.
He had only a son and had always wanted a daughter.
Whenever he saw fair, clean-looking Pengpeng, he adored her.
He would always say regretfully:
“Ah, if her body weren't like this, I'd really want to take her home and make her my daughter.”
I understood what he meant.
It wasn't disgust.
He simply liked her too much.
Still, hearing those words made something prick lightly inside me.
I knew everyone loved her. I knew everyone thought she was adorable, and I knew her condition made them worry a little more.
But what I wanted most was for people to see Pengpeng first and remember her condition second.
She wasn't “that child with a pacemaker.”
She was Pengpeng—the girl who clung to her mother, turned up her nose at certain foods, stole Kele, and sneaked sips of coffee.
My Fourth Sister loved her, too.
Whenever she went shopping at a mall or market and saw pretty clothes for little girls, she thought of Pengpeng.
“Pengpeng would look so cute in this.”
And so she brought home one outfit after another.
The little princess was already fair and clean-looking. Once she put on those pretty little clothes, she was impossibly adorable.
After she could sit more steadily, she also got a plastic recliner of her own.
That chair eventually became nothing less than her—
throne.
The little princess sat there.
When her godmother came over, she sat there holding Pengpeng while they watched TV.
When my best friend came over, she sat there, too, holding Pengpeng and playing with her.
An ordinary plastic recliner, ordinary in every possible way, became Pengpeng's private territory.
Watching her sit in that chair, I often found it funny.
She was so tiny, yet she already had a place of her own.
Everyone gathered around her not because she needed pity, but because she was part of our family and part of our pharmacy.
She had her throne, her godmother, her toys, and her Kele that no one else was allowed to touch.
She was slowly becoming a child, not merely a tiny life we were struggling to keep alive.
The one thing that hurt my heart the most was sleep.
The pharmacy's hours were long.
Sometimes we were busy from morning until late at night, even into the early hours of the morning.
I always felt that Pengpeng's body already had to work harder than other people's, so she should have been allowed to rest earlier.
But work was work.
The store was still open, and patients were still coming in. I couldn't turn off the lights and put her to bed early every day on the schedule of a perfectly ordinary child.
This always pained me a little.
Sometimes I'd see her rubbing her eyes, yet she still had to stay at the store with me, and I couldn't help wondering: If she were a completely healthy child, would I feel less guilty?
But then I'd think that even if she were an ordinary child, I'd probably still feel bad for her.
That's what mothers are like. We always feel we could do just a little more.
All I could do was make a quiet corner for her whenever I could amid the day's busyness, so she could sleep when she was tired and have someone beside her when she woke up.
But when it came to sleeping, Pengpeng was actually very considerate.
I'd pick her up and lay her on her side.
My palm would gently pat her back.
Once.
Then again.
I'd hum whatever tune came to mind, not even knowing whether it was an actual lullaby.
I just hummed.
Patted.
Rocked her.
Before long, she would fall asleep.
She was actually very easy to soothe.
And after a full day of work, I was tired too.
Sometimes I didn't even know whether I was the one soothing her to sleep, or whether she was keeping me company as we slowly closed out that long day together.
After she fell asleep, I'd look down at her for a while.
I'd look at her tiny face, her steady breathing, and the place on her chest that had once frightened me.
Before, when I looked there, I thought of hospitals, surgery, and pacemakers. I thought about whether she would survive.
Later, when I looked there, I thought instead about how much she'd eaten that day, how many times she'd cried, and whose toy she'd stolen.
The same child, the same chest, but my feelings slowly changed.
Just like that.
One day, then another.
The tiny baby with a pacemaker in her chest who had come home from the hospital slowly learned to roll over, crawl, and sit.
Her teeth emerged one by one.
She had her own toys, her own teether, her own throne, and her own favorite flavors.
She knew who Mom was.
She knew Dad could hold her, too.
She knew someone would be with her during the day, and that her godmother would come at night.
She knew Kele Guo was called “Kele.”
And she was beginning to understand that whenever Mom had something tasty to eat or drink, it was worth investigating thoroughly.
For those six months, we didn't think about her heart every day.
We didn't wonder every day how long she would be with us.
It wasn't because I was no longer afraid. It was because I finally understood that if I spent every day staring at everything she might lose, I would miss the childhood she was living right then.
She was growing up.
Learning to crawl.
Becoming picky about food.
Learning to be spoiled.
Turning everyone into her caregiver.
We were simply watching her grow.
And I gradually stopped feeling that I was guarding a child who needed to be saved.
She was my daughter.
A little princess who was somewhat clingy, a little picky, had a temper of her own, and occasionally sneaked sips of her mother's coffee.
Her body really did require me to be a little more careful, but her life shouldn't consist of nothing but caution.
I could remember what made her different while still loving her like an ordinary daughter, eating with her, going out with her, and living our days together.
Those two things didn't conflict.
At the time, I truly believed—
that our days would go on like that, one after another.
And Pengpeng would grow, little by little, just like that.