I used to hate my father’s birth village. I didn’t like the people, their poor lives, and the nature of my father’s relatives, who often criticized my mother.

On the other hand, I was happy when returning to my mother’s village. My mother’s relatives were amiable. They competed to serve delicious food and asked me to walk around the countryside, bathe in the river, and visit my mother’s relatives’ houses one by one (we had a habit when we went back to our hometown, we had to go to my father’s village first for about a week, then went to my mother’s village). Such a welcome was exciting for a child raised in the city.

However, after I grew up and my father died, I didn’t mind going back to my father’s village. I could deal with the cynicism of my father’s family. I told myself that even though they were like that, they were my father’s blood relatives. I have to maintain a relationship with them.

My late father must have been happy. I no longer hated his family.