Chapter 29: The Countdown of Women’s Age

A few days ago, a stranger said she resembled a black gemstone. Ou Jinghe thought to herself—yes, she was nurtured by dark drains, low bed frames, and moss in the shadows. How fitting.

The things Yu Zhimei had told Jian Zhaowen were partly true and partly false. But inviting men she barely knew but felt comfortable with into her life? That was real. Upon reflection, at the age of twenty-three, she wasn’t sure whether she wanted to win someone’s heart through food or use her body to seek affection. In any case, when strange men entered her tiny partitioned room and saw the stove on one side and the toilet on the other, they always seemed insulted, wanting only to take advantage of the situation and leave as quickly as possible. She once shared such cramped quarters with her ex-boyfriend, no matter how dirty or cluttered the hallway outside was, or how many neighbors’ belongings blocked the narrow passageway. For Yu Zhimei, stepping into this door brought warmth—a home. The stickers on the walls were placed there by someone who once loved her, complimenting her unique taste. Because of her presence, the entire room radiated charm.

She used to believe that her darkest secrets should be buried deep inside, especially hidden from those she loved. The feeling of being scrutinized like a defendant was something she didn’t want to endure. But after sharing these things with Jian Zhaowen, she figured that a man developing a social app wouldn’t be too shocked.

Besides, Jian Zhaowen would never become her boyfriend. Sharing secrets between friends wasn’t a big deal.

And Jian Zhaowen was still awake: “Yu Zhimei, your past vulnerabilities have nothing to do with my judgment of you. You’re a victim, yet you fear others’ accusations. That’s not right. I won’t sleep until you fall asleep. Whenever you ask, my answer remains the same.”

Not long after, Jian sent another message: “You don’t need to dwell on sharing these things with me. We’re friends.”

These consecutive messages kept her awake. Yu Zhimei scrolled through her chat history with Jian Zhaowen, looking at the interaction screenshots he’d sent. The “day” page had a white background with blue text, while the “night” page featured a black background with gray text. Switching between them felt like walking between light and darkness. She often thought of Shi Rui. After borrowing a motorcycle to pick her up from the outskirts, she always felt Shi Rui hovering nearby, sometimes close, sometimes distant—someone she had shared hardships with, yet feared exposing. She realized that she had never relied on anyone before.

Suddenly, breath brushed against her neck. Yu Zhimei jumped, turned on the light, and saw Dou Yu sitting up, glaring at her. A headache struck. This hot-blooded man was about to rage again over midnight texts. Before Yu Zhimei could say anything, Dou Yu grabbed a pillow and slammed it against the wall: “What urgent matter requires texting someone else in the middle of the night?”

“Work-related.” Yu Zhimei wouldn’t tell Dou Yu about her past, even to avoid arguments.

“Hand over your phone so I can see.”

“No.”

“Is it that neighbor Jian Zhaowen again?”

“No.” It was 2 a.m., and Yu Zhimei was truly exhausted. Startled by the pillow, the cat jumped. Yu Zhimei picked up Lulu: “I’ll go sleep on the couch downstairs. Let’s talk about this tomorrow morning—we both have work.”

Dou Yu sensed Yu Zhimei’s growing distance but persisted in trying to snatch her phone: “He lives right next door. Now I have to take an hour-long subway ride after class just to prevent him from sneaking around. Do you think I can’t see that he likes you? Otherwise, why are there two sets of dishes in the sink when you eat alone?”

“One set for cooking, another for eating.” Yu Zhimei stood in the shadows, lying smoothly: “Please. If you really don’t trust me, just say so.”

While Dou Yu muttered, “Baby, I’m not doubting you,” he tried to coax Yu Zhimei back to bed, explaining that he had seen too many flirtatious men and women in dance studios and was just afraid she might fall for someone else. The more Yu Zhimei listened, the more uncomfortable she felt. She could sense something pressing against her from behind—no need to guess; Dou Yu got excited when angry. Sometimes, Yu Zhimei suspected Dou Yu picked fights intentionally just to vent his frustrations through sex. At first, nearing thirty, she found some joy in their passionate relationship, but later, when Dou Yu began making strange demands, she grew weary. This type of relationship, where intimacy escalated too quickly without emotional depth, gave her headaches.

Moreover, she was genuinely exhausted.

That evening, drinking at Miaolin, Yu Zhimei suddenly realized she hadn’t been there in a long time. Even He Jie, who always sported short hair, now had shoulder-length curls, and all the tables in the shop were new. He Jie was upstairs hosting a private event, handing Yu Zhimei the key to the third floor and telling her to drink in the small room: “It’s rare for you to come drink at Miaolin. You haven’t been supporting my business lately.”

“I should probably head back.” Feeling uneasy about disturbing during a private booking, Yu Zhimei hesitated. He Jie gently pushed her upstairs: “Jian Zhaowen and Shi Rui are here too. What’s wrong with that? They’re practically family.”

Before Yu Zhimei could figure out when He Jie started considering them “family,” she reached the small third-floor room. Outside the door, Jian Zhaowen was drinking, while Shi Rui sat on the bed holding a glass. The scene was bizarre. When Shi Rui saw Yu Zhimei, she seemed relieved and quietly moved closer: “Meimei, a few days ago, I saw He Jie go upstairs with a strange man. It didn’t seem like her husband. Do you know about this…?”

“I don’t.”

“This isn’t right. Having such a good husband and still cheating—it’s immoral…”

“You could ask her. Maybe it’s just a close friend.” Looking up, she met Jian Zhaowen’s eyes, and they exchanged knowing glances. If even Shi Rui noticed, it was clear how brazen He Jie had become.

“But it’s really immoral. If I meet He Jie’s husband, I’ll tell him—how can we let a devoted man who’s been with his first love be deceived like this?”

While Shi Rui went to the restroom, He Jie approached Yu Zhimei: “Gao Yuan’s parents are coming to Bi Hu to celebrate his birthday. They’re pressuring us—they’ve been living in the suburbs and must have consulted some fortune-teller recently. They believe having a child this year, the Year of the Rooster, will bring great luck.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“If they call you, come help me out. If necessary, stay at Bi Hu for a few days.”

Thinking of taking some time to cool off from Dou Yu, Yu Zhimei readily agreed.

Ou Jinghe drove along the Shanghai-Jiading Expressway all the way to Jiading. A month before her wedding, her parents received approval for their demolished house and moved grandly to the suburbs, hosting two banquets alongside her wedding. The entire neighborhood consisted of former demolition households and young renters, with two elevators serving eight units across twenty buildings, bustling on weekends. Entering the elevator, she encountered a three- or four-year-old child who looked at his mother, then at her, hiding behind his mother while secretly winking. When the elevator doors opened, Ou Jinghe took off her sunglasses and winked back when the mother wasn’t looking.

She enjoyed these little games children played. But meeting her parents afterward didn’t bring much excitement. To shake off the gloom of seeing the elderly, she arranged a date at four o’clock with a nearby boy whose photos looked handsome. Her father wasn’t home. Taking off her coat, Ou Jinghe glanced at the salted chicken, oil-burst shrimp, and stinky tofu with soybeans on the table, feeling pleased. Her mother, busy hanging clothes, tied her apron and went to ladle soup: “Your aunt brought ham; I made a pot of your favorite yanduxian . Why hasn’t Gao Yuan come recently?”

“He’s busy, working in Beijing.” Ou Jinghe avoided mentioning the upcoming birthday celebration and lounged on the sofa: “No one cares about me.”

“Aren’t you doing fine? We often check reviews of your shop on Dianping. Your father even scolds people who leave bad reviews.”

“That’s unnecessary.” Thinking of her parents watching food channels on TV and wanting to submit clips to the station, she sighed. Food recommendation shows were essentially advertisements—you had to pay for a minute and a half of airtime. Her parents didn’t understand this.

“When you have time, come back with Gao Yuan. Your father recently returned from Suzhou with a calligraphy piece, saying he wants to give it to you personally.”

“More superstition—spending money guarantees pregnancy, huh?”

“Don’t say that. Your father means well.”

“Spare me.” Ou Jinghe stretched lazily on the sofa. If her father didn’t return, she might nap here. As a child, their home didn’t have such a large sofa, just a small wooden stool. After starting elementary school, there was a piano. Every room in the alleyway was like a drawer—if you pulled it, broken things would fall out. Her father called on neighbors to help squeeze the piano into the room, even removing the balcony windows. Back when she married Gao Yuan, her parents were waiting for municipal demolition. After over a decade, the demolition plans suddenly halted due to leadership changes. Without Gao Yuan, her parents might have spent their lives trapped in that “drawer,” living in squalor. A few days ago, a stranger said she resembled a black gemstone. Ou Jinghe thought—yes, she was nurtured by dark drains, low bed frames, and shade-loving moss. How fitting.

Hearing the sound of keys, her father entered, paused for a second upon seeing Ou Jinghe, and cut straight to the point: “Has Gao Yuan been visiting recently?”

“No.”

“Then why did you come back?”

“Mom called me for dinner.”

Her mother interjected at the right moment: “The soup is ready. Come eat.”

Stir-fried stinky tofu with soybeans was a dish you could smell as soon as you entered the house. During her two years abroad, Ou Jinghe ate plenty of poached eggs and cured meats, which always left her craving comfort food. Gao Yuan always thought it smelled like the alleys, keeping his distance. Her mother cooked this dish as if confirming Gao Yuan wouldn’t come. Only her father, unable to resist loneliness, asked again: “What has Gao Yuan been up to recently?”

“Investments, what else.” Occasionally, when Ou Jinghe was in a good mood, she answered calmly.

“See? He’s ambitious and persistent, unlike you, with no aspirations. But doesn’t his line of work involve meeting young girls often? Be careful. Though he treasures you as his first love, after all, you’re older now, and he’s so successful.”

Ou Jinghe remained silent, thinking inwardly—Gao Yuan’s business acumen was innate, unrelated to hard work. Attending a third-rate university didn’t stop him from using his father’s money to invest and earn titles. Investing in plays allowed him to critique scripts and young actors. If she had gone out to work, she might not have been unsuccessful either. Ordinary people succeed through determination and time.

“Are you still learning drifting? You should stop—it’s useless. Save the money for future investments in your child. At your age, you have no investment value left.”

“Oh.”

“After summer, you’ll turn thirty-five, right?”

“Can you stop beating around the bush? Just say it directly. Isn’t it about having a child?”

Her mother couldn’t help but chime in: “Maybe try IVF again…”

“It’s unnecessary.”

“How is it unnecessary? It was just blocked fallopian tubes before, and they’ve been treated. At your age, childbirth is risky. High-risk pregnancies at thirty-five are dangerous. When he’s away on business trips, young girls might approach him. Having a child strengthens a couple’s bond. Without you, your father and I would’ve fought endlessly.”

“So go ask your son-in-law.” Thinking back to her days in the alleyways, Ou Jinghe spoke Shanghainese with intonation and vigor, not feeling as miserable as she did now. But after marriage, every time she spoke Shanghaineese, it felt like a subtle reminder of her past in the narrow alleys, a past that others might view with disdain. Over the years, whenever she heard Shanghainese spoken around her, it seemed people were always fixated on her stomach—judging, questioning, and scrutinizing. She tried hard to suppress the image of Gao Yuan from surfacing in her mind.

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The conversation lingered uncomfortably in the air, like an unspoken weight pressing down on Ou Jinghe’s chest. Her father’s words echoed in her mind: “At your age, you have no investment value left.” The phrase stung more than she cared to admit. Turning thirty-five wasn’t just a number—it was a countdown, a societal expectation that loomed over her like a storm cloud. She had spent years building a life with Gao Yuan, but now, even the foundation of their relationship seemed fragile under the strain of external pressures.

Her mother continued, unaware—or perhaps uncaring—of the emotional toll her words inflicted: “You’ve been married for so long, and there’s still no sign of a child. What are you waiting for? Every year counts. You can’t afford to waste time.”

Ou Jinghe bit her lip, forcing herself not to snap back. She wanted to scream, to tell them that life wasn’t a transaction, that love shouldn’t be reduced to biological deadlines or societal approval. But she knew her words would fall on deaf ears. Her parents’ generation operated on a different wavelength—one where women were valued primarily for their ability to bear children and maintain familial harmony. To them, her worth as a daughter and wife was tied directly to her reproductive success.

Instead, she forced a tight smile and changed the subject. “I’ll think about it,” she said, knowing full well that “thinking about it” wouldn’t satisfy them. But it was enough to buy her some temporary peace.

As dinner dragged on, Ou Jinghe found herself mentally retreating. She picked at her food, her appetite gone. The taste of the salty chicken and oil-burst shrimp, once comforting reminders of home, now felt heavy and oppressive. Even the smell of the stinky tofu—a dish she used to crave—made her nauseous. Her mind wandered back to the stranger who had called her a “black gemstone.” The description had amused her at first, but now it felt eerily accurate. Like a gemstone buried in the dirt, her brilliance—if there ever was any—was overshadowed by the cracks and imperfections of her circumstances.

After what felt like an eternity, she finally excused herself, claiming exhaustion. Her mother nodded sympathetically, though her eyes betrayed a hint of disapproval. “Rest well, Jinghe. We’ll talk more tomorrow.”

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Back in her room, Ou Jinghe collapsed onto the bed, staring at the ceiling. The faint hum of the air conditioner filled the silence, but it did little to soothe her racing thoughts. She thought about Gao Yuan, about his ambitions and the gulf that seemed to widen between them with each passing day. He was a man of action, always chasing the next big opportunity, while she felt stuck—trapped in a life that no longer felt entirely hers.

Her phone buzzed on the bedside table, pulling her out of her reverie. It was a message from Yu Zhimei: “Still alive?”

Ou Jinghe chuckled softly, despite herself. For all their differences, Yu Zhimei had a way of cutting through the noise, of reminding her that she wasn’t alone in her struggles. She typed back quickly: “Barely. How about you?”

The reply came almost instantly: “Same. Trying to figure out if I should run away or stay and fight.”

Ou Jinghe hesitated before responding. She wanted to offer words of encouragement, but the truth was, she didn’t have any answers. Instead, she sent a simple emoji—a thumbs-up—and added: “Let me know if you need backup.”

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Later that night, unable to sleep, Ou Jinghe opened her laptop and scrolled through old photos. There she was, younger and carefree, standing beside Gao Yuan at their wedding banquet. They looked happy then—or at least, they had convinced themselves they were. Back then, the future had seemed limitless, full of possibilities. Now, it felt like a series of closed doors, each one slamming shut with increasing finality.

She closed the photo album and opened a blank document, typing out a single line: “What do women owe the world?” The cursor blinked mockingly, as if daring her to continue. She stared at the screen for a long moment before deleting the text and shutting the laptop.

Outside, the city lights flickered faintly through the curtains, casting shadows on the walls. Ou Jinghe turned onto her side, pulling the blanket tightly around her. Tomorrow was another day, and she would face it—as she always did—with a mix of resignation and quiet defiance. For now, all she wanted was to escape into the oblivion of sleep.