On the walk home, the streetlights on either side cast a drowsy yellow glow.
Su Minzhi held Niannian’s small hand as they strolled slowly down the familiar road.
After a while, Niannian tilted her face up and asked tentatively, “Mom, is Dad going to get married again?”
Minzhi paused for a beat—she hadn’t expected her daughter to ask so directly.
She stopped, crouched down to be eye-level with Niannian, and looked earnestly into her daughter’s eyes. Choosing her words carefully, she tried to explain the complicated question in a way a child could understand:
“Niannian, your father is living on his own now. He might meet someone suitable in the future and maybe get married. But no matter what, he will always be your father—that will never change.”
She smoothed her daughter’s hair and added, “If you ever want to see Daddy or talk to him, just tell Mama. I won’t stop you, and I won’t be angry.”
Niannian listened, but in her head the question was different.
She wasn’t worried that her father remarrying would affect her—she was thinking about something else.
After a moment’s silence, she mustered courage and asked the question she truly wanted to ask: “What about you, Mama? Will you get married in the future?”
The question surprised Minzhi. She straightened and considered how to answer.
“Would you want Mama to get married, Niannian?” she countered.
Niannian thought seriously, then said something Minzhi had never expected to hear from a seven-year-old:
“No matter whether you marry or not, Mama, I hope you can have love.”
The words struck Minzhi like lightning. She stared at her daughter, wide-eyed—unable to believe such mature, profound words had come from a child.
Niannian’s thought was simple.
Mama was only thirty—right in the prime of life. Whether she married wasn’t the point; but if there was a chance to experience a beautiful love, why refuse it?
She understood that while she could give her mother companionship and a daughter’s love, the love from a partner—the support and understanding of a soulmate—was something different.
Minzhi crouched down and hugged her daughter tightly.
She had never expected to receive such understanding and support from a seven-year-old. Tears welled up unbidden.
“Niannian, how did you think of this?” Minzhi choked out.
“Because Niannian thinks Mama is so good, someone should appreciate Mama, someone should love Mama,” Niannian replied.
Hearing this, Minzhi’s heart filled with complex emotions—gratefulness, warmth, and a deep, moving sense of protection.
“Niannian,” Minzhi said, looking into her daughter’s eyes, serious. “If someday Mama meets the right person and wants to fall in love, I’ll tell you first and ask what you think. You are the most important person to me—Mama will never make a choice that hurts you.”
Niannian nodded vigorously. “Okay, I trust Mama’s judgment.”
In that moment they were more than mother and daughter—they were each other’s best friends and most trusted companions.
“Let’s go home,” Minzhi said, taking her daughter’s hand, and they walked on.
Niannian thought to herself as they went: Mama is so wonderful—she’ll definitely meet someone good. Maybe on Mama’s future path as an entrepreneur she’ll find a like-minded partner. After all, in these years full of opportunity, talented and determined people attract one another.
Later, Minzhi sat in her office on the third floor of the Foreign Trade Commission, head bent over piles of paperwork—the majority were import approval applications.
Since the country’s opening-up policies took effect, more and more enterprises and individuals applied to import various goods.
From Hong Kong electronics to small Japanese appliances, from Taiwanese food to Western cosmetics, the variety of import applications kept Minzhi, the officer in charge of import approvals, endlessly busy.
That morning she was reviewing an application for home appliances when a soft knock sounded on the office door.
“Come in,” she said without looking up.
A sharply dressed middle-aged man entered. He looked to be in his forties, short but energetic, hair neatly combed, and carrying a black briefcase.
“Hello. I’m Chen Zhihua, from Hong Kong,” he said in Mandarin tinged with a Cantonese accent, politely offering his card. “I’d like to apply for an import permit for a batch of Japanese beverages.”
Minzhi glanced at the card—“General Manager Chen Zhihua, Zhihua Trading Co., Hong Kong”—and raised an eyebrow with professional curiosity.
Over the years she’d met many Hong Kong traders, mostly importing appliances, clothing, or toys. Drinks were a new category for her.
“Please sit, Mr. Chen,” she said, pointing to the chair opposite. “What kinds of drinks are you importing?”
Chen sat and produced a stack of documents and several neatly packaged sample boxes from his briefcase.
“They’re mainly Japanese children’s nutritional drinks, lactic-acid beverages, and some functional drinks. These products are very popular in Hong Kong and Taiwan,” he explained.
Minzhi took the packages and was immediately drawn to their attractive design.
Unlike the monotonous orange-juice-powder packaging common on the mainland, these import drink packages were lively and playful—cartoon mascots, bright color schemes—each one like a carefully crafted piece of art.
“What’s this one?” she asked, picking up a bottle with a little bear on the label.
“That’s a children’s nutritional liquid,” Chen said. “It contains multiple vitamins, calcium, and cod liver oil, designed for kids aged three to twelve. It’s very popular with parents in Hong Kong.”
Minzhi inspected the label. She couldn’t read all the details, but the English ingredient list confirmed it did contain various nutrients.
She thought of her own daughter, who usually had only orange juice powder—bottled soda was a luxury.
“How well does it sell in Hong Kong?” she asked.
Chen’s eyes lit up—this was clearly his favorite topic.
“It sells very well! Although it’s not cheap—eight Hong Kong dollars a bottle—parents rush to buy it. Especially middle-class families—they’re willing to spend for their children’s health and development.”
“Eight Hong Kong dollars?” Minzhi was surprised. At the exchange rate of the time, that was roughly the equivalent of a mainland worker’s daily wage.
“Yes, it’s expensive,” Chen admitted, “but it works. A friend’s child used to be weak and often ill—after half a year on this nutrition drink, he grew noticeably stronger and his school performance improved. So despite the price, parents still buy it.”
Minzhi still found the price steep and remained noncommittal.