Chapter 7: The Adoption Certificate
That night, after returning from the courthouse, I stayed in Old Zhou's workers' shed all night.
The lawyer said the evidence was sufficient and that he could draft the lawsuit.
But he also said something else:
“The house is registered under your eldest brother's name. You only have the transfer records and recordings. You can take the case to court, but it's not a sure thing. You'd better look for more evidence—something that can prove exactly what the nature of your relationship with them was.”
What the nature of our relationship was.
I stared at the corrugated metal roof of the shed, turning those words over and over in my mind.
Old Zhou's snoring shook the entire place. Someone in the neighboring shed was grinding his teeth.
I took out my phone and played the recording from the previous night—the one where my mother had said, “You weren't born to me.”
I listened to it more than twenty times.
Every time, it felt like someone was stabbing me straight through the heart.
But each time, I became a little clearer-headed than before.
Early the next morning, I went back to that home.
I knew they would all be out.
My eldest brother would be at work.
My second brother would be at his company.
My father was going to the hospital for a follow-up examination.
My mother always went to the town market on Thursdays.
I waited at the entrance to the alley for half an hour.
I saw my mother leave with her vegetable basket hanging from her arm. Her figure disappeared around the end of the alley.
Then I walked in.
The door wasn't locked.
This family had never locked the door because there was nothing worth stealing.
I stood in the living room and looked around.
The same sofa was still there.
My eldest brother's child's baby bottle sat on the coffee table.
A family photo hung on the wall.
Five people in the picture.
My father and mother were sitting in front, with their three sons standing behind them.
I was standing on the far right.
My clothes were old, and my smile was stiff.
I had been fifteen then, less than a year into working at the construction site.
I was dark and skinny, standing beside Chen Qiang in his school uniform and Chen Hui in his new jacket.
I looked like a construction laborer who had somehow wandered into a students' group photo.
I stared at that photograph for a long time.
Then I turned and entered my parents' bedroom.
The bedroom was tiny.
A double bed.
A wardrobe.
On the bedside table sat piles of medicine bottles and old newspapers.
I opened the wardrobe.
It was packed with old clothes, quilts, and plastic bags.
My mother couldn't bear to throw anything away.
She had accumulated hundreds of plastic bags, folded neatly and stacked in the corner.
On the top shelf of the wardrobe was a metal box.
It was locked.
The lock had already rusted.
I found a screwdriver and pried it open.
Inside the metal box was a stack of old documents.
The household registration book.
The marriage certificate.
My father's military discharge certificate.
Several yellowed insurance policies.
A pile of old photographs.
I searched through them.
At the very bottom of the box, underneath an old newspaper, was a kraft-paper envelope.
There was no writing on it.
It hadn't been sealed.
The flap was simply folded over.
I pulled out what was inside.
A sheet of paper.
Thin.
Slightly yellowed.
The folds were almost worn through.
The writing was handwritten in blue-black ink, neat and orderly, as though it had been torn from some notebook.
“Adoption Certificate.
This is to certify that Chen Mo, male, born March 12, 1990, was adopted by the married couple Liu Guilan and Chen Dayong in May 1991.
Person who gave the child for adoption: the family of Chen Jianguo.
Reason for adoption: biological father deceased; biological mother unable to provide support.”
There was a stamp at the bottom.
It had become blurry, but I could vaguely make out the words “XX Township People's Government.”
The date was May 19, 1991.
At the very bottom was another handwritten note.
The handwriting was different, as though it had been added later:
“After consultation between both parties, Chen Dayong and Liu Guilan voluntarily adopted the child and assumed all responsibilities for his upbringing. The adoption relationship shall take effect from this date.”
May 1991.
I had been one year and two months old.
I held that piece of paper, my hands trembling badly.
The paper was so old that I was afraid it would tear if I used too much force.
But at the same time, I desperately wanted to crush it in my palm.
An adoption certificate.
I hadn't simply been brought home.
I had been adopted.
My biological father had died.
My biological mother couldn't raise me and had given me away.
Chen Dayong and Liu Guilan adopted me.
They raised me for fourteen years.
Then they made me quit school and go to work, sending money home to support the entire family.
I turned the paper over.
There was another line on the back.
The writing was smaller.
It had been written in pencil, so faint that it was almost impossible to read.
I took out my phone, turned on the flashlight, and moved closer.
“This child has a hard fate and brings misfortune upon his father. At the time of giving him for adoption, his mother said that his origins need not be disclosed.”
His origins need not be disclosed.
A hard fate.
Brings misfortune upon his father.
I crouched on the floor, gripping that paper in my hand.
I stayed like that for a very long time.
My knees grew sore.
The old injury in my right leg throbbed faintly.
But I didn't move.
I simply remained there, looking at the adoption certificate and staring at those pencil-written words.
So from the age of one, I had already been labeled.
A child with a hard fate.
A child who brought misfortune upon his father.
That was why my biological mother had given me away.
That was why my adoptive parents never told me the truth.
That was why I was supposed to quit school at fourteen.
Why I was supposed to send money home.
Why I was supposed to pay for a house registered under my eldest brother's name.
Why I was supposed to be thrown out of the house.
Because I was an outsider.
I had been one since I was one year old.
I stood up.
I folded the adoption certificate carefully and slipped it into the pocket against my body.
Then I put the metal box back where it had been.
I closed the wardrobe.
I threw the broken lock into the trash.
I walked out of the bedroom.
At the entrance to the living room, I stopped for a while and looked at the family photograph.
I took out my phone and photographed it.
Then I heard footsteps.
My mother had returned.
The wheels of her vegetable basket rolled over the concrete floor with a rumbling sound, getting closer and closer.
I turned around and stood in the center of the living room, waiting for her to come in.
She pushed open the door.
When she saw me, her hand loosened.
The vegetable basket dropped to the floor.
Tomatoes rolled everywhere.
“How did you get in?”
“The door wasn't locked.”
Her eyes moved from my face to the bedroom behind me.
Her expression changed instantly.
“You went through my things?”
“The adoption certificate,” I said.
“I saw it.”
Her face went from red to white, from white to gray.
She opened her mouth.
Her lips trembled.
For a long time, no words came out.
The vegetable basket was still lying on the floor.
One tomato rolled to my feet.
“You… Why did you look through that?”
“Because you said I wasn't your biological son.”
I looked straight into her eyes.
“I want to know, then, who my real parents are.”
She said nothing.
She leaned against the doorframe, her shoulders collapsing.
Her whole body looked as though its skeleton had been pulled out.
She didn't cry.
She just looked at me.
There was panic in her eyes.
Anger.
And something I had never seen on her face before—
Relief.
“Maybe it's better that you know.”
She finally spoke, her voice very soft.
“At least I won't have to keep hiding it after I die.”
“Who was my biological father?”
“He died.”
“Your biological mother remarried and took you with her. Her new family didn't want you, so she gave you away.”
“Where did she send me?”
“Your biological mother asked someone to find us.”
“At the time, I had just lost a child. Your father was still in decent health, so we took you in.”
“Then why did you hide it from me?”
She looked at me.
Slowly, her eyes hardened.
“What was the point of telling you?”
“So you'd go looking for your biological mother?”
“So you'd find out you weren't part of this family and run away?”
“We raised you all those years. If you left, who would take care of us when we got old?”
Take care of us in our old age.
Those words struck my ears even harder than “hard fate.”
“So that's why you made me quit school at fourteen and work.”
“To take care of you in your old age.”
“So that's why you made me send money home.”
“To take care of you in your old age.”
“So that's why you made me pay for the house and put Big Brother's name on it.”
“To take care of you in your old age.”
“So that's why you watched my second brother refuse to repay me.”
“To take care of you in your old age.”
“You ate the family's food and drank the family's water—”
“I ate the family's food and drank the family's water for fourteen years.”
I interrupted her.
“After I turned fourteen, I sent home nearly 900,000 yuan.”
“Mom, have you ever calculated it?”
“I supported you for ten years.”
“Wasn't that enough to repay the fourteen years you raised me?”
She fell silent.
She lowered her head and looked at the tomatoes scattered across the floor.
Then she bent down and picked them up one by one.
Her hands were shaking.
She picked one up, dropped it, then picked it up again.
I watched her crouched figure.
So small.
So old.
Half her hair had already turned white.
Her back was bent like a bow.
I didn't feel sorry for her.
I simply felt cold.
“I took the adoption certificate.”
I said, “My lawyer told me that the adoption relationship doesn't affect the property dispute. The money I paid is still mine.”
She suddenly raised her head.
“You're going to sue your eldest brother?”
“I'm going to get my money back.”
“Chen Mo!”
She stood up, her voice shrill.
“Have you gone mad?”
“That's your eldest brother!”
“Your second brother!”
“If you sue them, this family will be finished!”
“This family has been finished for a long time.”
I said, “From the day you decided to hide the truth from me.”
“From the day you made me quit school.”
“From the day you put my 370,000 yuan under my eldest brother's name.”
“It was already finished.”
She froze.
Then she did something I would never forget.
She knelt down.
She was holding a tomato in her hand as she knelt among the vegetable leaves scattered across the floor.
She raised her head and looked at me.
“Mo, Mom is begging you.”
“Don't sue them.”
“About the money, I'll talk to your second brother and make him repay you.”
“As for the house, I'll talk to your eldest brother and make him figure something out.”
“Don't sue them.”
“Don't destroy this family.”
“Mom is kneeling to you.”
I lowered my head and looked at her.
She was kneeling on the floor.
Under her knees were crushed tomatoes, their red juice soaking into her pants.
She looked up at me, tears filling her eyes.
She looked so pitiful.
So helpless.
Like any mother who had exhausted herself worrying over her children.
But I knew she wasn't doing this for me.
She was doing it for my eldest brother.
For my second brother.
For this family—
The family that had never had a place for me.
“Mom,” I said.
“You raised me for fourteen years.”
“I remember those fourteen years.”
“But I supported you for ten years.”
“Nine hundred thousand yuan.”
“Wasn't that enough to repay you for raising me?”
She opened her mouth.
She couldn't answer.
“If it was enough, then we're even.”
“If it wasn't, give me a number.”
“I'll repay you.”
I turned and walked out the door.
Behind me came the sound of her heartbreaking sobs.
And the sound of tomatoes rolling down the steps.
I didn't look back.
The old pagoda tree was still at the entrance of the alley.
The blood-pressure medicine, knee supports, and cotton shoes I had left beneath it yesterday were gone.
I didn't know whether someone had picked them up or whether the rain had washed them away.
I reached into my pocket and touched the adoption certificate.
The paper was thin.
Very old.
The folds were almost torn through.
But it was real.
I stood beneath the tree for a while and called Old Zhou.
“Brother Zhou, I found the evidence.”
“The adoption certificate.”
“Good.”
Old Zhou's voice was steady.
“Show it to the lawyer tomorrow.”
“Brother Zhou.”
“Hmm?”
“I'm not their biological son.”
There was silence on the other end for a few seconds.
“I know,” Old Zhou said.
“When you were fourteen, your mother came to my house looking for you.”
“She said one thing: ‘This child has a hard fate. He can never truly become part of a family.’”
“I guessed it back then.”
I gripped the phone and looked up at the sky.
It was blue.
The clouds were high.
I had lived for more than twenty years.
For the first time, I felt that the sky above my head belonged to me.
“Brother Zhou.”
“Hmm?”
“I'm okay.”
“Come to my place.”
“Okay.”
I folded the adoption certificate carefully and put it into the pocket against my body.
Then I dragged my injured leg and walked out of the alley one step at a time.
This time,
I walked straight.
ns216.73.216.62da2
and then Add to home screen.