My Mother-in-law from Guizhou

photo / canva.cn

Written by Margaret Nie

English Translated by Qiran Zhang

Qingming has passed, marking a full year since my father-in-law left us. Over these twelve months, my mother-in-law has tended the family’s ten acres of tea fields all on her own. In early spring, the buds begin to stir—tiny flecks of green pushing out with quiet urgency. As the days warm, they seem almost eager to burst forth. When the harvest outpaces her hands, she hires help. Here in Zunyi, Guizhou—famous not just for Maotai but for its sprawling tea terraces—the rich soil and layered hills gift the leaves with selenium and zinc, making them especially prized. For someone like me, born on flatlands, the sight of mist rising over ridged hills, each row of tea tracing the mountain’s curve, is something close to breathtaking.

Guizhou is indeed a place of rare beauty—a place that calms the soul. But picking tea here is no gentle pastime. Each tender bud, no larger than a fingernail, must be plucked one by one, by hand. It takes keen eyes, swift fingers, shoulders that don’t tire, a back that bends without complaint, and legs steady enough to climb and crouch for hours on the slope. Of all the harvests, the pre-Qingming “rain tea” is the most cherished. Delicate and fragrant, it is so prized that it often sells itself.

Each morning, as the sky begins to lighten, my mother-in-law sets off with her bamboo basket on her back. The dew has yet to dry, and the tea leaves are at their freshest. She returns with a full load, heads straight to the collection station to sell it, then rushes home for a quick breakfast. After a short rest, she’s out again, back among the rows of green. In my eyes, she’s always been quick and capable. It’s been fifteen years since I first met her, and now, at seventy-three, her mind and body are still sharp, her movements nimble. I truly admire her—so full of spirit and strength. I also feel fortunate; not many women her age is still this healthy, still this devoted to work.

Fifteen years ago, during the Spring Festival, I visited my future husband’s home for the first time. It was also my first step into a mountain village tucked deep in the heart of Guizhou, remote and quiet, unlike any place I had ever known.

Back then, travel wasn’t as easy as it is now—it took two days and a night, switching from plane to train to bus, each more tiring than the last. By the time we finally arrived, dusk had already settled over the mountains. My mother-in-law had prepared dinner: some meat, sausage, and a few vegetables, all laid out in small, mismatched bowls, their edges chipped with age. Where I come from, guests are welcomed with grand platters and a show of abundance. So, I couldn’t help feeling a bit disappointed—this was my first visit, after all, and I was soon to be her daughter-in-law. That night, I didn’t dare call home. I knew the moment when I opened my mouth, the tears would come.

Much of that trip has blurred with time, but one moment remains vivid. As we were leaving, my mother-in-law and sister-in-law filled our bags with smoked sausage, bacon, and dried chili peppers from their own pantry. I remember thinking—this home may have little, but they gave us everything they had. Their kindness was simple, wholehearted, and without reserve. Because of that, I chose to forget the pigpen just beside the toilet, or the fact that no one bathed the entire week we were there. I told myself—it’s fine. They won’t interfere in my life. I’d just come back once or twice a year, stay for a week, like a short, rustic holiday.

Looking back now, I was—by all accounts—too young, too naive.

I didn’t understand then that marriage isn’t just a bond between two people, but a quiet merging of two entire families. By the time I came to that realization, it was already too late. Our son was nearly one when my father’s health began to fail. He insisted on returning to his hometown, and my mother went with him to care for him. With both my husband and I working full-time, we had no choice but to ask my in-laws to help with the baby. From the moment they moved into our small home and our lives began to overlap, the differences between us, once easy to overlook, became impossible to ignore. Most of the tension centered around how to care for the child: what to feed, how to bathe him, when to give medicine. We disagreed on everything. And slowly, the cracks began to show.

The conflicts were constant, draining me in ways I hadn’t expected. My in-laws were resentful; I was sinking into a quiet kind of despair. Life felt heavy, joyless. The early glow of new motherhood had faded entirely, leaving only fatigue and frustration in its place.

There were no dramatic blowups—just the steady accumulation of small things. Should the baby be bathed every day? Should bottles be sterilized? Should we medicate at the first sign of a fever? I believed in evidence-based parenting. My in-laws, however, were convinced that daily baths would wash away a baby’s natural defenses and lead to illness. Where they came from, going an entire winter month without bathing was nothing unusual. So when our son caught a cold, they pointed fingers at me. I, in turn, blamed them for giving him fever medicine without understanding what caused the fever. We mistrusted each other, spoke past one another, and took turns complaining to my husband. He, caught in between, made things worse—passing along messages instead of helping us find common ground. Bit by bit, the tension snowballed.

Fortunately, neither of us is the type to hold onto anger for long. After each argument, we’d cool down, exchange apologies, and carry on. Then life offered us an unexpected pause—my husband was transferred overseas, and I followed, stepping into the role of a full-time mother abroad for three years. Distance, as they say, softens the edges. With an ocean between us and the past tension, things slowly eased. Even when my mother-in-law occasionally hinted—or outright urged—us to have a second child, I gently but firmly declined. She would sigh, but let it go. The truth was, the weight of pregnancy and parenting had already worn me down. I couldn’t imagine walking that path a second time.

Yes, another child might mean a lifelong companion. But it also means twice the responsibility and twice the weight, especially in a city where time is limited, housing is tight, and education comes with a heavy price tag. By the time we returned home, I was already past thirty-five, struggling to find my footing in the workforce again. My mother-in-law, citing my father-in-law’s declining health, refused to help this time. With no other option, I turned to my own parents, coaxing and pleading until they finally agreed to come care for the child so I could keep my job and stay afloat.

Thankfully, my father’s condition has remained stable, which has allowed my mother to step in and support us. Whether it’s her or my mother-in-law, both have shouldered enormous responsibilities in their later years—giving far more than they should have had to. As for my father and father-in-law, all we can really hope for is that they’re able to take care of themselves.

I’ve come to see that as women grow older, their strength in managing a household and raising children often becomes more pronounced—it quietly gives them the upper hand at home. Older men, by contrast, seem to grow more reliant on their wives. Perhaps it’s just biology. From the moment I met my father-in-law, he was already dependent on medication, his health always fragile. Maybe it was due to limited access to proper healthcare in the remote mountains of Guizhou. There, people still turn to herbs and folk remedies passed down through generations. But I’ve always been wary of such treatments. I remember once, he insisted that carp soup could cure a cough and gave some to my one-year-old son. Not long after, my son broke out in hives, his tiny face swelling like a balloon. They had simply forgotten how delicate a child’s digestive and immune systems still are.

In the second lunar month of 2024, my father-in-law passed away after a stroke, the result of his steadily failing organs. Just a month earlier, during the New Year, we had gone to visit him. He had ventured into the mountains to gather wild Ganoderma mushrooms, and sent us home with bags of them, saying they’d make a nourishing soup.

A few weeks later, just before his 74th birthday, he quietly left this world. At the time, only my mother-in-law was by his side. She called us home with a steady voice, asking us to return and take care of the funeral. For the first time, my husband and I stepped into the role of hosts. My mother-in-law, though newly widowed, guided us through every detail—welcoming guests, preparing offerings, observing the old rites. She stayed composed throughout, her strength never wavering. That night, as I struggled to stay awake during the vigil, she remained alert and tireless. When we gently urged her to rest, she simply shook her head and said, “I’m not sleepy at all.”

After the funeral, we asked her to come live with us in the city. She shook her head without hesitation. “The spring tea is about to sprout,” she said simply. “If I leave, who will look after the house?”

Her words tugged at something deep in me. A woman in her seventies—slight, alone, tucked away in the mountains—yet her heart seemed forged from steel. I asked gently, “Aren’t you afraid? The woods are thick, the nights pitch black, and the nearest neighbor is far. Don’t you ever feel lonely?” She looked at me with calm eyes and said, “What is there to fear? I like the quiet.”

Our son loves to tease her, calling her a “big eater.” Every year when we return for the New Year, she cooks non-stop, one dish barely finished before the next appears. And if we can’t finish, she does, happily. Her appetite is impressive, her energy even more so. She never seems to tire.

All I hope is that she stays healthy, that she continues to eat well, sleep soundly, and live with the same quiet strength. Because as long as she’s well, we will always have a reason to return to Guizhou. There will always be a light on, waiting for us in those mist-covered hills.