The first sound Lily remembered wasn't her name, or her mother's voice.It was the voice of a man reading the news—in crisp Cantonese, from the television screen.It was the late-night broadcast from Hong Kong: ATV, TVB Jade, sometimes with a short burst of advertisements in between.And always, the familiar weather segment at the end, where a cartoon figure would stroll across the screen, opening a tiny umbrella or shading its eyes from a drawn sun—gentle, whimsical, and oddly reassuring.
She lay in a crib tucked behind the family's round dining table, watching the soft flicker of light from beneath the wooden edge.In front of her, seated beneath a long fluorescent tube light embedded near the ceiling, was a man in his early twenties.He didn't move.His back faced her, still and silent, eyes fixed on the television.That was her father.
Though young, his back bore a heaviness that she couldn't yet understand—calm, tired, a little worn, like someone who had spent the day carrying something invisible.He didn't look back at her, didn't say a word.But there was no coldness in that silence.Only the kind of distance that comes from not knowing what to say to a life so new.
In those years, television was not merely entertainment—it was a portal.China was still finding its breath after the Cultural Revolution, still brushing red dust off its shoulders.Reform and opening-up had begun, but the cultural fields remained barren.People craved more than slogans. They longed for color, for rhythm, for stories that weren't only about sacrifice.
Hong Kong, just across the water but under British rule, offered a glimpse into another world.Its programs were lively, fast-paced, human.There were game shows, variety hours, comedies, dramas, music performances—a full spectrum of human expression that felt both shocking and beautiful to the inland eye.
Most of us in Guangdong didn't speak Mandarin fluently, but we understood Cantonese perfectly.So we turned our antennas toward Hong Kong and tuned in night after night.TVB and ATV weren't just channels—they were lifelines, feeding laughter, gossip, aspiration, and fantasy into living rooms otherwise quiet and plain.
For the young, it was a window to the modern world.For the old, it was a reminder that the world had always been bigger than they were told.
Father's Evening, from His Eye
At twenty-something, he had already stopped being a boy.
He was a husband, a father, and a son—but he hadn't yet become a man by choice.He had become one by obligation.
The square television in front of him wasn't just a screen.It was his wife's dowry, one of the "Three Must-Haves" of the time—a bicycle, a sewing machine, and a TV set.Its twin antennae rose like awkward branches, catching signals from across the sea.
He sat on a round wooden stool with long iron legs, shoulders leaning slightly forward, eyes fixed on the glowing box.Behind him, his newborn child stirred in a crib.He would glance back now and then.Was the baby crying? No.Breathing? Yes.Alive? Still.That was enough for now.
He didn't know what to do with a baby.A creature that cried, ate, and made a mess.He had no language for care, no instinct for intimacy.So he turned back to the television—because it was easier.
It showed him Hong Kong.And Hong Kong showed him a version of life he never thought possible.
There, old people had pensions. Children went to school and knew why.Not just to earn money, but to find futures.There, jobs paid ten times what they paid in Guangdong.Not in rice, but in dignity.
There, people laughed openly.They sang karaoke, got massages, ate in neon-lit restaurants.They weren't ashamed to want joy.They didn't whisper when they said they wanted more.
And here he was—in a place still recovering from revolution,where ambition was silent, and desire was a kind of guilt.Where fun was frowned upon,and a father was expected to know everything before he had the chance to become anything.
Every evening, for half an hour, he sat there not as a father, or a son, but simply as a young man—quietly mourning the boy he never had time to be.
Father's Silent Monologue
He was too young to think it through.Marriage. A child. A home.They weren't questions, just checkpoints.Milestones set by people who had also never asked why.
By the time he even thought to wonder what it all meant,he was already a father.Already seated in this life.
The baby—his daughter—was small and soft and helpless.She cried, she ate, she soiled her diapers.That was her job.His job was everything else.
He didn't hate it.He just didn't understand how long it would last,or what it would cost him in dreams he never named.
Sometimes he asked himself, silently,"Was there another way?"
Maybe.But he had seen what happened to people who tried to live differently.They were talked about.Pushed out.Quietly erased.
So even if he couldn't yet explain it,he knew this must be the right path.Because it was the only one that didn't punish you for walking it.
And so he walked.Without looking up.Without stopping.
First Feeling of Warmth
Lily had been in the world for less than a month,but her soul was much older.
She didn't remember everything,but she remembered enough—a long, quiet life before this one,where a few people mattered deeply,and love was always complicated.
She had told herself not to forget.Not this time.
And then someone entered the room.
A woman dressed in simple clothes—a soft-collared tunic like a casual Zhongshan suit,loose gray trousers that older women often wore,clean, neat, quiet.
She didn't speak loudly,but her presence broke the silence.She picked Lily up gently,checked the bottle,began to feed her.
It was the first time Lily felt something beyond function.This was attention.This was concern.The woman kept murmuring softly,not to fill the air,but to comfort the space between breaths.
The young man—her father—looked up, startled by the shift.He moved toward them, awkward but grateful.
Lily didn't know her name yet.But later, she would.
She was her grandmother.