Xiao Li was an ABC, an American-born Chinese girl. In the blink of an eye she was already thirteen. Mrs. Liao, a “single mother” who was not really single, felt fortunate that this piece of flesh that had fallen from her own body, raised through so many exhausting days and nights, had finally grown into a graceful young girl.
Because her husband spent most of the year doing business in Taiwan, returning only once or twice annually and staying with his wife and daughter for little more than a dozen days each time, the responsibility for raising and disciplining their daughter fell almost entirely on Mrs. Liao.
Mrs. Liao was busy all day. Early in the morning she prepared breakfast, hurriedly drove her daughter to school, then returned home to make the bed, wash dishes, and clean up the mess her daughter had left behind. When she saw the time, she rushed out to drive to work. By the time she came home and cooked dinner, the city lights were already on. At night, while her daughter did homework over the telephone with classmates, Mrs. Liao continued with her housework.
At last she had raised her precious daughter. Yet along with her happiness, a faint worry began to rise in her heart.
Since Xiao Li entered middle school, she complained that the clothes and shoes her mother bought were ugly. If they were not famous brands, she became unhappy. When her mother tried patiently to reason with her, she complained about the nagging, and sometimes answered with a blunt “NO!”
What had happened to her daughter? Had she spoiled her too much? Had there not been enough education? Or had the way she taught her been wrong? Mrs. Liao kept turning these questions over in her mind.
During summer vacation, her husband returned from Taiwan. Taking advantage of his being home, the couple discussed in bed that they needed to pay more attention to their daughter’s education.
The next morning, the whole family happily drove downtown for an outing. They toured the busy, noisy Broadway district, then turned onto a side street where there were fewer pedestrians.
They came to an area where warehouse doors were shut. Dirty tissues, cigarette boxes, and beer bottles lay along the roadside. Against the wall, several homeless men with tangled hair and filthy faces looked at them through drunken eyes. An elderly woman in torn sleeves and ragged clothes limped along pushing a shopping cart stuffed with miscellaneous belongings.
Xiao Li had never seen such a miserable and broken scene.
“Mom, why are they so dirty?”
“Do they wash their faces?”
“Do they bathe? Where do they wash their clothes?”
Holding her mother’s hand, Xiao Li fired one question after another.
You could see that something had struck the young heart like an electric current.
“They’re homeless,” her father said calmly. “They once had beautiful childhoods too. But later they cared only about enjoying themselves and did not work hard to pursue happiness. In the end, they were thrown onto society’s rubbish heap.”
The family left the noisy, chaotic, glittering yet decayed and poor downtown area and drove to one of Los Angeles’s wealthiest neighborhoods, Beverly Hills. Tree-lined streets surrounded houses of every style among red flowers and green trees. A splendid world appeared before Xiao Li. She had long heard that Hollywood stars lived there and that the mansions were worth millions, even tens of millions of dollars.
Xiao Li could not stop exclaiming.
“Wow, so beautiful!”
At dusk, in order to let her understand what the “homes” of homeless people were really like, the family drove back to the poorer part of the city. The last light of sunset fell slantwise across the quiet street. As the car moved slowly, they saw that beside peeling walls, houses made from large packing cartons had already appeared. Uneven holes had been cut into the cardboard. Homeless people curled up inside, their vacant eyes staring through the openings.
“This is their home.”
After returning home, Mother and Father gave Xiao Li a question to think about:
“The road of life is like this. It depends on which one you choose.”