It was midsummer in the countryside. Cicadas buzzed in the thick, warm air, and the rivers and fields were lush and full.
A pair of rough, sunbaked hands held a small, dark-skinned child’s hand as they walked over a little bridge and crossed a creek toward the elementary school in the next village.
Zhao Panpan wore a modest pink dress that her neighbor’s older sister had given her. She bounced along happily in the sunlight as her grandmother brought her to the teacher for registration. “This is our girl. She’s six—time for school.”
The enrollment teacher barely looked up, holding a pen. “What’s her name?”
“Well, she’s been called Niuniu since she was little, no real name yet. How about we write ‘Pan Di’ for now? She doesn’t have a younger brother anyway,” Zhao Grandma said.
Finally, the teacher’s eyes fell on the grandmother and granddaughter. After a moment, she spoke. “Her eyes are really beautiful. Let’s call her Panpan—‘beautiful eyes,’ like a lady straight out of an ancient poem.”
Zhao Grandma chuckled. “Panpan’s fine. Two ‘pan’ sounds together—maybe she’ll even bring a little brother sooner!”
Back then, Liu Fenhong and Zhao Yongwei had been dating for several years. Liu Fenhong finally got pregnant, but Zhao Yongwei didn’t mention marriage at all. He just waited to see whether it would be a boy or a girl.
All of that was far away from six-year-old Zhao Panpan’s world.
At that moment, she was simply thrilled. She finally had a name that felt special—no more being just another “Niuniu.” She liked that the teacher described her eyes as “beautiful,” and from then on, she always emphasized that her name Panpan came from that poem.
When people said, “Your family is so cultured, they treat you so well,” she would just smile.
In that generation of rural girls, most were called “Niuniu” until they started school, and then the teacher would help them choose a real name. Many ended up with duplicates—just in their village, there were at least six girls named Panpan.
But on the day she received her name, she was genuinely happy.
Zhao Panpan would never forget the dry, bark-like hands of her grandmother reaching into her waist, pulling out a plastic bag, counting out 150 yuan—every single coin—and placing it neatly in front of the teacher. “This is the tuition.”
Back then, before free compulsory education had reached the countryside, sending a girl to school was considered a true kindness.
It was something girls were expected to be grateful for.
Most girls, after learning basic characters, were sent to work outside. But Zhao Panpan wasn’t. That small, frail old woman made sure she could study properly, dreaming that one day she would get into Tsinghua or Peking University.
Even at that age, Zhao Panpan felt lucky. She vowed to study in the capital and bring her grandparents with her.
But somewhere along the way, the top-ranking student Zhao Panpan became a burden to her family.
Her grandmother and grandfather fought more and more, and she became the target of their anger.
Her grandmother’s eyes grew sharp with disapproval, and her grandfather would hit her.
Later, she learned that at that time, Liu Fenhong had given birth to a daughter, and Zhao Yongwei was unhappy. He stopped working, spent his days drinking and chasing women, hoping for a son.
Liu Fenhong had been hospitalized several times due to his beatings but had to continue working while carrying her daughter. When she couldn’t earn money, Zhao Yongwei called his parents for help. Liu Fenhong cried on the phone repeatedly, saying her child didn’t even have enough to eat.
During those years, Zhao Panpan’s grandparents worked the fields and gave whatever they earned to Zhao Yongwei.
They gave everything to their son without holding back—but the long-term hardship caused by him left them with bitterness.
Zhao Panpan, the daughter he didn’t care about, naturally became the outlet for their frustration.
But Zhao Panpan never hated her grandparents. She only felt that she wasn’t good enough. She studied hard, worked hard, and saved every penny.
She would pick up discarded bottles and paper from classmates or the roadside just to sell them and earn a little praise from her grandmother—“You’re so sensible, raising you was never in vain.” Those words made her happy.
But years of hard work and poor nutrition meant she often got sick, adding even more to her grandparents’ burden.
Grandpa went off to work, and her tiny grandmother had to plant crops, tend pigs, and raise chickens—every day was exhausting.
At home, it was just the two of them, and whenever problems arose, no one stood up for her. Outside, Zhao Grandma endured her own share of slights and frustrations as well.
All the anger and resentment she held inside, she poured onto a child not even ten years old.
The first time she hit Zhao Panpan, she later felt guilty, even aching when she saw the bruises. But once the weak discover the power they hold over someone weaker, it can become addictive…
Tears ran down Zhao Panpan’s cheeks. For a small child, when those you love most begin to turn away, you learn early that you cannot rely on love to protect yourself.
The more she wanted approval and affection, the sadder she became.
She was grateful that now, even when she faced unreasonable demands, although it still hurt, she would not allow herself to lose out.
It is normal to feel sad—after all, the people who hurt her were not strangers. They were family. She cared, so she was hurt.
But after facing the same emotional pain again and again, the body learns to protect itself. The people who were once important slowly stop being so.
When you stop caring, you stop getting hurt.
Zhao Panpan comforted herself—because she was a girl, she had endured these hardships.
All the female leads in dramas had to go through the same.
Her grandparents’ love had limits—not so much that they gave her a perfect childhood, and not so little that she would cut ties with them in anger.
This twisted kind of family love trapped her, when she was young and needed them most, in a cycle of self-doubt and frustration.
But now, the harm from her relatives had become something like an elective lesson.
She could accept being hurt—it was part of going through life.
And once she built her own defenses through repeated disappointment, she would finally be free from the wounds of her family.
Since there was no favoritism, she would be her own most loyal and devoted love.
She would never betray her own heart.
Zhao Panpan closed her book, wiped the tears from her cheeks, and returned to her bedroom. “Baby, you will always be Mommy’s treasure. Mommy loves you.”
She rested her hand on her back, bracing herself against all the storms, holding the child close, giving absolute safety, warmth, and love.
The child was both her weakness and her armor.
For this child, she could face anything, building a home that would always be a safe harbor.
Who said a child from an incomplete family couldn’t grow up healthy and whole?
She refused to believe it.
She would nurture her child with love, fill their childhood with beauty, and heal whatever wounds life might bring.
Zhao Panpan believed her child would be healed by this love for life—and she would give that child love without limits.