The father goes out with the son, leaving the mother behind in the room with the little girl. The son turns around to take one last look at the girl. He was too young to understand that it would be his last time to see the girl.
The room is dreadfully dark, relying entirely on the generosity of the sun, and the sun is approaching the distant foothills. The mother tells the girl that they should go out to the courtyard. They both understood that for this family, the father's brother's family, to have a house with a courtyard means they were reasonably wealthy. In the center of the courtyard is a fountain with some water in it; it's approaching winter and there isn't a lot of water in the streams, and not a lot of life either. There are young banyan trees that line the walls of the courtyard, walls engraved with mountain and water sceneries. And in front of of the four walls is a granite bench. The mother sits down on one of them, and nods to signal that the girl can sit down too.
The girl's head has been lowered all this time. Her hands clutching together, trembling.
"You understand.... You have to understand, that we can barely take care of ourselves," the mother begins to say, without looking at the girl. The girl is about thirteen. "Five years ago we took you in, we needed help around the house, and you did a lot for us. But things are changing now. The Mister doesn't have a job," the mother says. She sighs and says, "But you knew all this already." She shakes her head in pity as the girl nods, by now her cheeks are flooded with her tears.
"I know they seem mean," the mother continues, "But at least they are willing to take you in. They can give you food and shelter." She, too, feels the tremble in her hands, but she controls it better. She can feel the weight of her words slowly and indefatigably stacking on the heart of this girl whose destiny had been slightly rewritten.
"I am sorry we can't do more," says the mother, "I wish we can all stay together. But the Mister hasn't been able to find a job here. He wants to try his luck either back in the city or across the border in Hong Kong. But that will require the last of our savings, and we have our own son to think of."
What is she afraid of, the mother wonders about the girl in front of her? She tries to soothe her fears by first guessing them. "We will try to write to you. We won't forget you. It isn't easy for us to do this. You've become a part of our family." And at that very moment, the girl makes a sound that escapes from her stretched control over her own emotions. But she is able to only let that out and remain in control, merely letting the continuous stream of tears smother her weather face and causing some irritation on her skin. She has worked hard, performed many very difficult tasks for this family of humble status. When they bought her, she was a scared little girl from a family that also couldn't keep her, her biological family. And after they bought her, she quickly felt useful. They made her work even at the age of eight, easy things first, but eventually by the time she passed her tenth birthday, she was doing most of the housework. Her hands testify to the brutal means of survival her birth status had imposed on her. They are cracked and wrinkled for a thirteen year old. And especially in this dry and cold winter weather, they fingers often bleed at the edges. She can't read or write, and she doesn't say very much, just obeys. Despite all this hardship she is still grateful that they always shared their food with her; she was never starved, and she always sat with them. She was made aware of her luxury whenever she was punished for misbehavior or incompetence; she was made aware that other bought girls, or "muis", lived in much harsher families, but even they, at least, had families; those who weren't fortunate enough to be bought often didn't live long.
So she stuck with this family who paid to rewrite her destiny a little bit, and after all the screamings and often beatings, she felt close to them. Now. Well, now, she had to face the harsh reality again, but as an adult, without the anesthetics of innocence.
"They have money here. They will take care of you. You just have to behave and do the best job you can for them. I know they are picky," says the mother, referring to her brother-in-law's family, "But we don't want you to be out there on your own."
The girl's face is made of two red cheeks, a pair of tiny eyes, small enough that you can't really tell often what she was looking at. She's got dirty hair braided into two pigtails. Her lips are chapped and bleeding, and the runny nose isn't helping them heal either. She finally wipes her cheeks, which just creates more ruptures on the skin of her face. Without looking at the woman who saw her eight years ago, took pity on her and begged her husband to buy her and take her in, without looking at her savior and master, she said, finally, "I don't want to be without you." It was a plea, not a statement, and certainly not a demand. The mother holds back her tears, folds her hands, and says, "We don't have a choice. Your future is here. They will take care of you." She says this last part with the folded hands trembling a little. There's no guarantee they would keep her. She is just some property left behind. Like a forgotten umbrella, she has no rights, no recourse to any abuse. She depended entirely on the generosity and love of her family, of which this family, the mother knows, is in desperate need. But she has no alternative solution to offer.
A month ago they had to leave their family dog with a friend. They took in the dog with the same pity and love they did with this girl. But the dog, which barely ate anything, was slowing them down in their search for a job. Besides, it was getting old. They have no idea what had become of the dog. And the reality is she won't write to inquire about the little girl, she won't, after today, know what would become of her. But she had her son to think about, his food, his future. The decision is not changeable, but the emotion is uncontrollable.
She pulls out a silver coin and puts it in the girl's trembling hand and says, "Keep this in a safe place, on your body, somewhere. If anything happens to you, you can eat for at least two weeks, during which you will have to find some means to continue." The girl falls on her knees and thanks her, while still holding on to the mother's giving hand. She isn't thinking that this silver coin would have also been valuable to the family which she was a part of. She is thinking how hard it will be when all she now has in the world is a silver coin. The mother feels the impropriety of being held like this by a bought girl, but she leaves them to be like this for far longer than appropriate. She wants, in a strange way, to feel this girl's trembling, fear, and sorrow, because those are her feelings too, and she is now simply using their connected hands as a conduit of sharing these feelings.
Finally, she gently shakes off the little girl's hand and says, "Goodbye." And she slowly walks out. She can see from the back of her head that the girl remains on her knees but is looking at her, saying good bye with her innocent, naïve eyes that no one could see, and that soon, would pour out all the sorrow of another departure.
