My Son's Wedding

I crouched in the little garden, pulling weeds. The September sun was still a bit harsh, sweat dripping from my temple onto the blue bricks, drying quickly. By the flowerpot lay a smooth pebble, drawn by Eric Gabriel when he was five years old. The blue sky, the yellow sun, and a crooked little figure—he said it was "Mom and me." The roses that Old Ben Gabriel planted still bloom, their pink and white petals dusted with dew. The year he left was also September; holding my hand, he said, "Viola, now that Eric Gabriel is with you, I won’t worry." Suddenly, the sound of a car braking came from outside the iron gate. I straightened up and saw a van parked by the roadside, bearing the "A Good Family" logo. The paint on the van was chipped in places, revealing the gray primer beneath. It felt as if life had stripped away all its shine, leaving only a worn, rough edge. A few people got out—some carrying video cameras, others holding microphones. The man leading them wore a wrinkled suit, his hair slicked back, a forced smile on his face as he walked toward me. His leather shoes were dotted with mud, probably from being stuck in traffic and taking a detour through the countryside. The microphone cover in his hand was frayed at the edges, stained with a bit of coffee. "Are you Ms. Viola Lincoln?" He held the microphone toward me, his voice deliberately cordial. I took a step back, still gripping a half-stem of foxtail grass, the fuzz on its leaves tickling my palm. "We're the mediation team from the show called 'A Good Family,'" he said, gesturing toward the video camera behind him. It was humming softly, the lens cover still on. "Your son, Jim Clark, is getting married. He and Mr. Yale Clark have specially invited us to bring you to the wedding." "Jim Clark?" I was momentarily stunned. A vague image of a little boy flashed through my mind—dressed in blue overalls, holding a toy car he slammed into my knee. One wheel had fallen off, and he was crying, "You owe me for my car!" "Mom, how could you even forget me?" A tall man emerged from behind the crowd. He wore a gray suit, his tie slightly askew, the collar stained with a bit of grease. His features echoed Yale Clark's, but he looked even more severe. Only then did I realize—it was Jim Clark. When I gave birth to him, I suffered severe hemorrhaging and stayed hospitalized for half a month. "It’s good that you get married." I said, tossing the foxtail grass into the trash bin and brushing dirt from my hands, some soil still trapped under my nails. "You must be around thirty now, right?" His expression darkened, as if displeased by my calm tone. He instinctively touched the cuff of his suit, where a loose thread hung—probably from wearing it too long without replacing it. The camera lens was aimed at me, and the bright light made my eyes ache. The young man holding the light looked quite young; his forehead was slick with sweat, and his hand trembled slightly. "Who are these people?" I pointed toward the crew members. The man in the suit quickly replied, "Ms. Lincoln, we're here to help resolve your family issues." "You left home years ago, hurting Mr. Clark and Jim Clark's feelings. Now is a good time to make amends." The wind swept fallen leaves onto the man in the suit's shoulder. He brushed them off with disdain; the movement was so forceful he nearly dropped the microphone. I remembered the winter two decades ago. The snow was three feet deep, crunching beneath my steps, burying my ankles. Mary Scott, wrapped in my cashmere coat, sat on the living room sofa holding the white fungus soup I had simmered for three hours, the red dates still unpitted. Yale Clark stood beside her, peeling an orange, the peels scattered across the floor. "Don't be angry. Viola Lincoln doesn't understand. I'll talk to her." Mary Scott curled her lips and set the bowl of white fungus soup on the tea table, the porcelain chipping slightly: "I'm not angry, just feeling wronged. Living here, I feel like an outsider." I had just come back from the market, carrying strawberries—Jim Clark's favorite—in a plastic bag, frozen stiff. Hearing this, I placed the strawberries on the tea table, droplets from the plastic bag soaking into the wood grain. "Miss Scott, this is my home. You've stayed here three months; isn't it time for you to move out?"