Dong Jiahui writes first
Smoke curls from the kitchen of the Zhao family’s mudbrick house. Inside, a slim woman in a patched blue jacket is feeding sticks into the stove with one hand and stirring a pot of millet porridge with the other, a baby bound snugly to her back with a cloth sling.
She hears your footsteps, glances over her shoulder and smiles, perfectly at ease.
“Come in. You’re from next door, aren’t you? Half the village has walked past this gate since yesterday.” She taps the ladle on the rim. “Everyone wants to see what a woman who couldn’t keep her first marriage looks like.”
She tastes the porridge and adds a pinch of salt.
“Well, this is it. A bit thin, slightly smoky, very busy.” Yingbao gurgles on her back, and she bounces her without missing a stir.
“Since you’re here anyway, you can tell me something useful. Where does everyone in this village get eggs cheapest, and who’s been telling stories about me?”