Five Years Waiting for the Homecoming

My name is Li Xiufen, and I’m thirty-eight this year.

To be honest—and don't laugh—it’s been five years since my "old man" and I last had a proper word together.

It wasn't a divorce, and we weren't separated. He was "inside."

Five years. Exactly 1,825 days. I counted them more carefully than anyone. On the 15th of every month, I went to see him, rain or shine. It didn't matter if the wind was howling, if the farm work was piling up, or even if I was burning with a fever—I had to go. Not for any other reason than to let him know that this home was still here, and I hadn't run off.

But if I’m being truthful, I really thought about running during those first two years.

The thought crossed my mind more than once. Auntie Wang from the village used to hint at it, sometimes coming right out and saying, "Xiufen, you’re still young. Who knows what’ll happen in three or five years? Better find yourself a steady man to live with while you still can."

I wouldn't say a word. I’d just keep my head down, peeling vegetables, my hands shaking uncontrollably.

That night, I lay in bed alone, tossing and turning. Outside, the moonlight was a pale, sickly white, spilling across the kang bed like a layer of frost. I thought back to the day he was taken away—the way the handcuffs clicked, and how he turned back to look at me. I’ll never forget that look. It wasn't fear, and it wasn't regret; it was a look of pure worry for me.

With that one look, I knew. My life was settled, for better or worse.

02

My husband’s name is Zhao Dajiang. He’s three years older than me.

He used to drive long-haul trucks in town. He’s a decent man, just has a short fuse. That’s how the trouble started—trying to stand up for someone else, he got into a fight and hurt someone. He got five years.

Now, was he wronged? No. Hitting someone is wrong. But he isn't a "bad" man. I’ve seen bad men in my life, and he isn't one of them.

He’s just a rural man with no formal education who lives by a stubborn code: if a friend is getting bullied, you jump in. He jumped in, and the price was five years.

When he first went in, I was in a daze. Our son, Xiaolei, was only eight, and our daughter, Xiaorui, was five. We had ten mu of land, my in-laws were in poor health, and my own mother couldn't offer much help. During the day, I labored in the fields; at night, I’d come home to cook for the kids, and once they were tucked in, I’d start the laundry. Often, as I scrubbed, tears would fall into the basin, and I couldn't tell the difference between the tears and the water.

The hardest time was always the wheat harvest.

In other families, the men would be driving the tri-wheel tractors, hauling the load home. I was a lone woman, hoisting sack after sack onto the bed. Each sack weighed nearly a hundred pounds. I’d carry one, then have to stop and catch my breath three times. Once, I simply couldn't lift another. I squatted at the edge of the field and cried for half an hour. When I was done, I wiped my face and went back to hoisting.

Back then, I’d think: Zhao Dajiang, if you were here, would I have to suffer like this?

But then the thought would turn: He isn't here. If I don’t hold this up, who will? The children were small, the land couldn't go fallow, and life had to go on.

That’s how I endured, one day at a time.

03

Five years is both a long time and a short one.

The first year I visited, he was still in good spirits. He’d tell me, "Xiufen, take care of things at home. When I get out, I’ll make it up to you."

By the second year, he’d lost a lot of weight and grew quiet. He’d just keep his head down and listen to me talk. I’d tell him the wheat was harvested, the corn was planted, or what rank the kids got on their exams. As he listened, his eyes would turn red.

The third year was the hardest. He got into an altercation inside and was put in solitary. When I went to see him, he refused the visit, sending word through a guard: "Don’t come anymore." I was so angry I stood outside the visitation room for thirty minutes. Finally, I shouted at the glass window: "Zhao Dajiang, you listen to me! If you don't want to see me, fine! But you better stay alive! You owe me—we’ll settle the bill when you get out!"

The guard told me later that he cried all night after that.

By the fourth and fifth years, he started to pull himself together. He learned a trade and became much more grounded. Every time he saw me, he asked about the house, the kids, and the elders. Once, he suddenly said, "Xiufen, you’ve suffered out there."

That one sentence broke the dam. Three years of held-back tears came pouring out.

04

This March, he was released.

Three days beforehand, I started cleaning the house. I stripped the quilts and had the cotton batting refluffed, got the kang nice and warm, and prepped the ingredients for his favorite—stewed sauerkraut with vermicelli. I got the kids looking sharp, too. I took extra care braiding Xiaorui’s hair into two neat little pigtails.

Truth be told, my heart was a mess of nerves.

It had been five years since we’d lived as man and wife. I didn't know who he had become, or who I had become. After he came out, could we ever go back to the way we were? He said he’d "make it up to me," but how? Can five years of hardship be balanced out by a few kind words?

If I’m being honest, I’d been praying for this day for five years. But when it finally arrived, I was a little afraid.

Afraid of what? I couldn't exactly say. Maybe I was afraid that everything had changed too much, that the five years had worn away whatever affection was left between us.

On the day I went to pick him up, I wore a red padded jacket he used to say looked good on me. It was a bit old, but I’d washed it spotless. I looked in the mirror and realized these five years had aged me. The wrinkles at the corners of my eyes were deeper, my hands were nothing but callouses, and there was dirt under my nails that I just couldn't scrub away.

Forget it, I thought. This is me. If he’s going to be disappointed, let him. He knows better than anyone what kind of life I’ve been living these past five years.

05

I saw him from a long way off at the prison gate.

He was thin—really thin. He used to be over two hundred pounds, strong as an ox. Now he looked to be maybe a hundred and sixty. The fat was gone from his face, leaving his cheekbones sharp and making him look a bit fierce. But his eyes hadn't changed. They were the same eyes, and the moment they landed on me, they lit up.

He walked over quickly and stood in front of me. His lips moved, but no words came out.

I didn't speak either.

We just stood there like two wooden posts.

He was the first to speak: "Xiufen, I’m back."

My nose went sour with tears, but I held them back and nodded. "Mmh. Let’s go home."

He leaned down to grab his luggage—just one woven plastic bag, limp and nearly empty. Then he suddenly turned and looked at me. I knew that look so well—it was the exact same one he gave me five years ago. Full of worry.

I thought he’d say something moving. Isn't that how it goes on TV? "You’ve worked so hard all these years," or "I’m so sorry," or "I’ll treat you right from now on."

But do you know what he actually said?

He said, "Let’s hurry home. I’m anxious to get back and have a look."

I was stunned. Anxious to have a look? At what? Our three-room brick house? Our old sow?

I thought to myself, this man is just too blunt. He hasn't seen his wife in five years, and his first words aren't about her—they’re about seeing the house?

The other families waiting at the gate were all looking at us. My face felt like it was on fire.

I took a deep breath and swallowed the "Can't you speak like a human being for once?" that was on the tip of my tongue.

Then, I did something I didn't even expect—

I laughed.

It wasn't a bitter laugh or a cold laugh; I really laughed. And as I laughed, the tears finally came.

I grabbed his arm and gave him a hard shove. "You! Five years and you haven't changed a bit! Still the same old mouth that can't say a proper word!"

He winced from the shove but he was laughing too, even as his eyes turned red.

I said, "Fine, let’s go home! I’ll let you look all you want! See for yourself how your wife kept this home for you these five years!"

06

On the way back, he sat in the passenger seat while I drove. Over these five years, I’d learned to drive everything—the tri-wheel, the tractor, the small van.

He kept staring out the window, muttering to himself: "This road’s been paved?" "The little village shop is still open?" "Old Wang’s house has been renovated?"

I just hummed in response, and the tension in my heart slowly began to dissolve.

He was still the same Zhao Dajiang—the man who, upon returning home, checks the house and the land first. It wasn't that he didn't care for me; he just didn't know how to say it. If he didn't care, he wouldn't have behaved himself inside; he wouldn't have looked forward to my visits every month; he wouldn't have written in every single letter, "Xiufen, don't work too hard."

The man is just clumsy with his tongue.

When we pulled up to the house, he froze the moment he stepped out of the car.

Our three-room house had been freshly whitewashed last year. I’d also paved the courtyard with cement and built a small planter for some roses. It wasn't a massive change, but it looked much tidier than before.

He stood there in the yard, looking left and right like a curious child. Then he pushed open the door to the main room and saw the family portrait hanging on the wall—taken just before he went in. He was in a white shirt, I was in a red dress, and the two kids were beaming.

He stood in front of that photo for a long time, motionless.

I stood in the doorway with the kids. Xiaolei was already taller than his father, and Xiaorui had grown into a young lady. They were a bit shy, but they eventually managed a quiet, "Dad."

He turned around, looked at the children, then looked at me. His lips trembled for a long time before he finally forced out a sentence:

"Xiufen, you’ve kept this home so well."

With that one sentence, all the grievances of the last five years came rushing up. I wanted to scold him, I wanted to hit him, I wanted to ask him why he was so impulsive back then. I wanted to ask if he knew how hard it was to carry those wheat sacks alone, or how scared I was running to the clinic at midnight with a feverish child in my arms.

But I said none of it.

I just walked over, took his limp woven bag into the house, and called back over my shoulder:

"Alright, don't just stand there like a statue. I’m going to heat up the sauerkraut and vermicelli you like."

He stood there dazed, and then suddenly, with a thud, he dropped to his knees.

I gasped and rushed to pull him up. "What are you doing! Get up!"

He wouldn't move. He knelt there in the yard, head bowed, his shoulders shaking. I had never seen him cry like that. This was a man who wouldn't have blinked if the sky fell, and here he was, sobbing like a child.

He said, "Xiufen, I’ve failed you. You’ve suffered these five years."

I couldn't budge him, so I just squatted down in front of him and used my sleeve to wipe his tears. His hands were incredibly rough; he must have done a lot of hard labor inside. I held his hands, and my heart felt like it was breaking.

I said, "Zhao Dajiang, listen to me. What’s in the past is in the past. If you really feel you owe me, then just don't be a fool again. Living a good life from here on out is better than anything else."

He nodded vigorously, his face a mess of tears and snot.

I was amused by the sight of him and stood up, saying, "Get up now. If the neighbors see, they’ll think I’m bullying you."

Only then did he stand, awkwardly rubbing his hands, and followed me into the house.

07

At dinner, he ate three big bowls.

He slurped down the sauerkraut and vermicelli, saying between bites, "Nothing beats home cooking. That stuff inside had no flavor at all."

I served him another bowl. "Eat slower, no one’s stealing it."

He looked up at me and suddenly said, "Xiufen, your cooking is even better than it was five years ago."

I gave him a look. "That’s just because you’ve been hungry for five years. Anything would taste good to you."

He chuckled—the same old honest, silly smile.

After dinner, he took it upon himself to do the dishes. I leaned against the kitchen doorframe and watched, a strange feeling in my chest. He never used to wash a single dish; he was the type who wouldn't even pick up a spilled oil bottle. Now, he was actually doing the chores.

He said, "I learned it inside. You have to do everything yourself."

That night, after the kids were asleep, the two of us sat on the edge of the kang. There was a pillow between us—after five years, things were bound to be a bit awkward.

He spoke first. "Xiufen, these five years... you on the outside and me on the inside... it wasn't easy for either of us."

I didn't say anything.

He continued, "I thought a lot while I was in there. About my old ways—my temper, my impulsiveness, how I didn't look after the family. Actually, I realized the day I went in that you were the one I let down the most."

As I listened, my eyes grew hot again.

He said, "I used to think that as long as a man earns money, he’s done his job, and the house is the woman’s business. I didn't understand what 'home' really meant until I was gone. A woman suffers so much when there’s no man around."

He paused, his voice turning husky. "When you told me about carrying the wheat sacks, it felt like a knife in my heart. A woman, carrying bags that heavy... if I’d been there, I never would have let you touch them."

I wiped my eyes and said, "It’s over now. Why bring it up?"

He said, "No, I have to say it. I didn't have the chance for five years, but now that I’m out, I have to say what’s in my heart. Xiufen, thank you. Thank you for not leaving, for raising the kids, and for holding the home together. Zhao Dajiang’s greatest luck in this life was marrying you."

I couldn't help it; the tears started falling.

He clumsily tried to wipe them away, saying, "Don't cry. I’ll treat you right from now on."

I blew my nose and said crossly, "If you ever dare go back in there, I really will leave and never come back."

He waved his hands frantically. "Never again, never again. Not even if they kill me."

I laughed at his expression, and he laughed too. Somewhere in the middle of that laughter, the pillow between us was pushed aside.

08

It’s been six months since Dajiang came home.

He found a job in town driving a bulldozer at a construction site. He doesn't earn much, but he works hard. He gets up before dawn every day to make breakfast for me, then hops on his electric scooter for work. No matter how late he gets back, he washes the dishes and mops the floor.

He talks more than he used to, but the phrase he says most is, "Xiufen, you rest. I’ll do it."

Once, I told him, "You’ve changed."

He said, "I haven't. I’m the same man."

I said, "You have. You were never this diligent before."

He said seriously, "Back then, I didn't understand. Now I know a home can't be held up by just one person. You held it for five years. Now it’s my turn."

Hearing that made my heart feel warm and full.

In truth, I’ve changed too. I used to carry everything alone, doing everything myself and never uttering a word no matter how exhausted I was. Now, I’ve learned to say, "Can you give me a hand?" I’ve learned how to show my vulnerability to him, and how the two of us can figure things out together.

My son, Xiaolei, said to me, "Mom, you’ve been smiling a lot lately."

I said, "Really? I hadn't noticed."

Xiaolei said, "Truly. You didn't used to smile much."

I thought about it, and he was probably right. When you’re the only one holding things up, you don't have the luxury of smiling. Now that there’s another person in the house—even if he’s still blunt and sometimes a bit annoying—my heart feels steady. And when your heart is steady, the smiles come naturally.

09

A few days ago, Dajiang came home from work and mysteriously handed me a bag.

I opened it to find a red padded jacket. It wasn't the old one; it was new, the color was vibrant, and it felt soft to the touch.

He said, "I saw you’d been wearing that old one for years, so I bought you a new one. I wanted it to be a surprise, but I’m no good at picking things out. Try it on and see if it fits. If not, we’ll go exchange it."

I tried it on. It was a perfect fit, and the style was quite nice.

I asked him, "How much?"

He scratched his head. "Not much. A few hundred yuan."

I knew his monthly salary was only about three thousand, so a few hundred was a lot to him. I didn't say it was expensive, and I didn't say it was a waste. I just said, "It’s beautiful. I really like it."

He grinned like a child.

That night, I stood in front of the mirror in that red jacket for a long time. I suddenly realized that I wasn't actually that old. The wrinkles were still there, and the callouses too, but there was a light in my eyes again.

That light comes from being cherished.

Ending

People ask me: was waiting those five years worth it?

I can't really say. Five years is so long that I almost forgot what he looked like. But five years is also so short that the moment he fell to his knees, I forgot all my bitterness.

In matters of the heart, "worth" doesn't really come into it. I’d committed to this man and this home. No matter how hard it got, I had to hold on.

The day he came back and was "anxious to have a look," he wasn't looking at the house or the land. He was looking at the thing he couldn't stop worrying about his whole life—his home.

And my reaction—the laughing through tears, the shove, the "let’s go home"—was only because, in my heart, I had been holding onto that same home all along.

Everyone hits a bump in the road at some point in their life. You just have to cross it. As long as the two people are still there and the home is still there, life can go on.

And that is enough.