Chapter 7
Cancelling the wedding was far more complicated than I’d expected.
We lost the twenty-thousand-yuan hotel deposit. The wedding planners refunded part of their fee; the photographer’s booking fee was non-refundable.
Three hundred boxes of wedding sweets had already been ordered.
When Mum found out, the first thing she said was, “Have you lost your mind?”
The second was, “Does Chen Shuo have someone else?”
I said no.
She didn’t believe me.
“If there’s no one else, why would you suddenly call it off?”
I explained my reasons.
When I’d finished, she sat on the sofa without speaking for a long time.
Finally, she said, “Just because of that?”
In that moment, I suddenly understood Chen Shuo.
Not everyone could see those costs.
Because for many people, throughout their lives, those costs had never been called costs.
They were called obligations.
Mum was so distraught she almost cried.
“What woman gets married without looking after her family? You’re not going there to be their housekeeper. Chen Shuo’s such a good man. There’s a flat, a secure job, and his parents treat you well. Do you insist on finding someone whose whole life revolves around you?”
“I’m not trying to find anyone.”
“Then you’ll spend your life alone?”
“Maybe.”
“What about when you’re old?”
I was silent for a moment.
“Does getting married guarantee someone will look after me when I’m old?”
That made her furious.
“Now you can stand on your own two feet, you won’t listen to anyone.”
I didn’t argue.
I used to be afraid of upsetting her.
I’d been an easy child.
I’d let my parents guide my university choices. After graduation, I’d stayed locally to be close to home. Seven uneventful years of dating, then buying a home, then marriage, one step after another: almost every elder’s idea of the proper course of a life.
So when I stepped off that course for the first time, everyone in the family thought something was wrong with me.
Dad hadn’t said a word.
At eleven that night, he knocked on my bedroom door.
“Asleep?”
“No.”
He came in and sat beside my desk.
After a long time, he asked, “You’ve really thought it through?”
I nodded.
“You’re not just angry?”
“No.”
“All right, then.”
I stared.
Mum heard him from the living room and immediately shouted, “Don’t encourage her nonsense!”
Dad ignored her.
He looked at me. “Work out the money for the flat properly. Don’t take advantage of him, and don’t let yourself lose out.”
My eyes suddenly stung.
“Dad.”
“Yes?”
“Don’t you think I’ll regret it?”
He thought for a moment.
“Yes.”
I was taken aback.
“Whatever you do, you might regret it,” he said.
“You might regret marrying, or not marrying. Taking a job, or leaving one.”
He rubbed his hands.
After more than twenty years driving a bus, the knuckles were thick.
“You can’t make the right choice every time. Just don’t choose something you know you don’t want because you’re afraid of regretting it.”
That was the most useful thing my father had ever said to me.
Not, “Dad will always support you.”
Not, “My daughter’s the best.”
He said:
Whatever you choose, you might regret it.
Perhaps the greatest freedom an adult has isn’t always being right.
It’s taking responsibility for your own mistakes.