SG 13

On the phone, Yan Anqing was still telling his grandma about how Chu Baiyan helped him watch the shop and brought him tofu pudding. His grandma laughed the whole time. That “merman” could do so much now, bringing breakfast, watching the store. What a vivid imagination it took to describe everything so real.

“When Grandpa Zhang and Grandpa Liu get here tomorrow, I’ll come over. I pickled a jar of salted duck eggs for you. Yesterday I asked Aunt Zhou to boil one to try, and it’s perfect. The yolk runs with oil. I’ll bring them with me tomorrow.”

Yan Anqing answered with a soft “mm,” then remembered something. “Buns.”

“You want buns, baby? Good thing you mentioned it. I’ll steam some fresh in the morning.”

She added, “But you can’t eat buns every day just because they’re easy. You need to cook real food too. Just eating buns isn’t balanced.”

He didn’t want buns for himself. Chu Baiyan had said they were delicious, so when his grandma brought them, he wanted to give them to him.

After hanging up, Grandma called out to the housekeeper, “Xiao Zhou, when you buy groceries tomorrow, get some mushrooms and minced pork. Make sure it’s from the front leg. Pick the best part and ask the butcher to chop it by hand. Don’t let him grind it with a machine. Machine-ground meat doesn’t taste as good.”

“Don’t worry, I’ve bought it enough times to know,” the housekeeper said from the kitchen. Every time Grandma made buns, she gave extra money for the butcher to hand-chop the meat.

When Yan Anqing first opened his shop, Grandpa’s condition wasn’t too bad. The two of them often went to check on him. Over the past year, he had stumbled through running the shop but could now live on his own. They finally felt more at ease. She had never expected him to earn much money. Opening a store just gave him something to do. He was young and couldn’t be cut off from society. Besides, they were both over seventy. How many more years could they really live?

Thinking about his childhood, Grandma sighed. When he was born, he was a tiny, perfect baby with fair skin and rosy cheeks. Every time the nurse carried the babies out for baths, he was the most beautiful one in the row. All the hospital tests came back fine. When they took him out after his first month, everyone in the housing compound wanted to hold him and even joked about arranging engagements for him.

When he reached two and a half and still didn’t talk, they knew something was wrong. Even if boys spoke later, they should still call basic words by then. Besides not talking, he was also rigid and stubborn.

Every day had to follow a fixed routine. If one step went wrong, he screamed and cried. His things had to stay in their exact spots, never moved. He had three milk bottles but only used one. If they gave him another, he threw it away. He had trouble sleeping. Even the smallest sound ruined it.

At first, they thought it was a calcium deficiency, so they took him to pediatrics. The doctor’s words hit like thunder. Yan Anqing showed signs of “autism spectrum disorder.” He was too young for a full diagnosis, but they needed to start intervention early.

His parents were both only children, and both families were well-off. With just one precious boy, of course they would do everything possible. Everyone thought spending money would solve it. But once they started, they realized it wasn’t just money. It was time and energy.

Both parents worked, and they couldn’t put their careers on hold. The paternal grandparents were retired, but his grandfather had a stroke when Anqing was two and couldn’t move easily, so Grandma had to care for him. His maternal grandfather was still in the army and couldn’t leave his post. So his maternal grandmother took over. She had been a primary school Chinese teacher. She took early retirement to care for him, only a year or two ahead of schedule. The school understood.

After a year of therapy, there was progress. He learned a few words and could express basic needs. That gave the family hope. She studied and practiced intervention techniques herself, staying by his side every day.

At home, she saw improvement. But once he entered kindergarten, the differences stood out. He wouldn’t follow instructions. He would run outside in the middle of class to chase butterflies. No matter what the teacher said, he did his own thing. If another child touched his stuff, he screamed and bit them.

The principal called his parents in and gently suggested they transfer him. But where could they go? She knew it wasn’t something a new kindergarten could fix. She asked to speak to the principal herself and promised to stay in class full-time. The teacher could teach while she watched Anqing. Only then did they agree to let him stay.

One day during an art class, the teacher gave each child a plaster cartoon figure, along with paint and brushes. That was the first time Anqing followed along with everyone else. He carefully painted the plaster in front of him.

When he finished, his face and hands were covered in paint, but he held up the little figure and said it was for Grandma. She had almost cried. He knew who cared about him. That moment changed everything. She realized he loved coloring plaster, though he had never cared for drawing on paper.

She took him to the park and bought another plaster doll. He sat still for half an hour, quietly coloring it.

If a child had interest, there was hope. She ordered a box of blank plaster figures online and brought one to kindergarten every day. When he got restless, she gave him one to paint. That way, even if he didn’t listen, he didn’t disrupt class, and the teacher could teach peacefully.

When he turned five, she took him to a pottery class in a shopping mall. Books said it helped train grip and coordination. He loved it instantly. The first time, he played for two hours straight and didn’t want to leave. He made a crooked little bowl and said it was for Grandpa.

Anyone raising a child like this knew how hard it was. The exhaustion and tears could fill a whole book. What other children learned in a few tries, he needed hundreds, even thousands.

Though he kept improving, anyone could tell from his speech that he was different. Except for her, he could barely communicate with anyone. At home and outside, she acted as his interpreter.

Years of intervention slowly wore down his parents’ patience. Work stress, social pressure, and frustration built up until they fought often. After a full day of work, coming home to a child who still couldn’t communicate or change, it tore everything apart.

By the time he reached senior kindergarten, they went to a top hospital for another full assessment. He was diagnosed with “Autism Spectrum Disorder (Asperger’s),” with dyslexia and social impairment. Autism couldn’t be cured, only managed. With good intervention, a person could live independently. Without it, they might need care forever.

The diagnosis crushed his parents’ remaining hope and broke their marriage. His paternal grandparents couldn’t accept it. The conflicts deepened. Before the school year ended, his parents divorced.

But what fault was it of his? Did he choose this? No matter what anyone thought of him, to his grandma, he was still her most precious boy. Though custody went to her daughter, the real responsibility fell on her.

He attended the school where she had taught, and many colleagues helped watch over him. Even so, she still had to accompany him because there were always situations the teachers couldn’t handle.

He was fine in math but hopeless in Chinese. Even with her decades of teaching experience, she couldn’t get through to him. He only absorbed what he wanted. She bought countless picture books and fairy tales, but the only one he read was The Little Mermaid. That single book grew worn from constant reading while the others stayed untouched.

Since elementary students couldn’t bring plaster dolls anymore, he started carrying The Little Mermaid in his bag. If he didn’t want to listen, he read. As long as he stayed quiet, that was enough.

Like a small snail crawling slowly but never stopping, he made his way up. With age and constant guidance, his condition gradually improved. He could control his behavior now. Though still distant and always sitting alone, he no longer needed her by his side in class.

He had a strong attachment to what he liked. If he loved something, he never stopped loving it. Every time he went to the children’s pottery studio, he got completely absorbed. His grandparents bought him a small pottery wheel and clay at home so he could work anytime.

He ended up getting good at it. In elementary school, he won a handmade craft competition with his pottery piece. One of the judges, a ceramics professor from an art academy, said he had real talent and potential for creativity.

In the end, he got into Jindu Art Academy’s ceramics program. After graduation, they helped him open a pottery shop so he could support himself. The shop was bought with money from selling his father’s old apartment, paid in full, with no rent. As long as he earned enough for daily expenses, it was enough. Even if one day she and Grandpa weren’t there, he would still live well.

Looking back now, she didn’t even know how she had made it through those twenty years. Her little baby had grown into a young man. And he had never once disappointed her.

On Monday morning, she wanted to leave early, but just making and steaming the buns took time. She was old now and couldn’t knead the dough, so the housekeeper did it. But she still wrapped them herself. She never let anyone help with that part. She folded each bun with neat, even pleats that her grandson could recognize instantly.

When she finished and checked the clock before leaving, it was already past ten.