My Hidden Identity Is a Prophet

In the three days between my brother's death and the burial, Grandma, despite her grief, did not spare my mother, who was still in postpartum confinement. She verbally abused her, saying she was incapable of giving birth to a son and had wasted so many chickens and eggs during her pregnancy—things that could have been sold for money.

I sat by the bedside, looking at my mother's pale face, feeling an overwhelming sense of sorrow.

"Mom, don't be sad about the baby brother. You still have me and my sisters," I comforted her.

"The only thing Mom needs to do now is to get well quickly and try to get pregnant again soon," she said, trying to act nonchalant.

"If I can't give birth to a son, your dad and grandma will never be happy."

"I'm already forty. If I don't have a son soon, the Chad family line will end. How could I face our ancestors?"

I wanted to persuade her otherwise, but she seemed resolute, so I had to give up.

The four walls of the house had confined my mother's entire life.

Her breasts sagged like those of a woman in her fifties; childbirth had caused her to suffer from hair loss, incontinence, and chronic back pain. After giving birth to my brother, she endured the agony of engorged breasts.

I saw all this and felt a deep pain in my heart.

"I hope Mom never has to have another child," I whispered a wish to the sky.

"Yvette, come over here and make some chicken soup for your mom. You can have some too," Grandma, uncharacteristically, was making chicken soup again, and this time, there was a portion for me as well.

I knew it was the Taoist's words that had rekindled her hope.

"He will be reincarnated."

But who knows where he will be reincarnated?

I found it quite amusing.

But still, I obediently added firewood to help cook the chicken soup.

After all, I was craving it too.