My Hidden Identity Is a Prophet

The good times didn't last long.

Just as my parents and Grandma were enthusiastically discussing whether the secret recipe they got from Aunt Chelsea in the village would work for having a son, Mom entered menopause.

At first, they thought she had conceived again so quickly and planned to call the village doctor from last time to check the gender.

But this time, he told Grandma, "Your daughter-in-law isn't pregnant. If her period hasn't come for a long time, she should go to the hospital to check if there's a problem or if she's menopausal."

"How could that be? She's only forty!"

No one believed it.

So, even though my mother hadn't been able to go to the hospital during her difficult childbirth, she went this time.

But the result was menopause.

"Doctor, can she still have children?" my father, Sean, nervously asked.

Receiving a negative response, he was completely disheartened.

When he came home, he shared the news with everyone.

Except for me, everyone was surprised.

There were so many people in the village, but no one had ever heard of a woman reaching menopause at forty.

I asked, "Does menopause mean she can't have any more children?"

Grandma impatiently pushed me aside, "Kids shouldn't interrupt."

But from their conversation, I understood that Mom wouldn't have to bear any more children.

How coincidental, I thought. Could it be that some divine force had seen my mother's suffering and came to save her?

But then I thought, how could that be?

Just look at our village. The preference for sons over daughters is severe. Once a woman marries in, she is expected to keep having children. If she is lucky and has two boys in a row, she won't suffer as much. Women like my mom, who can't have a son, are many. How could she have the luck to be favored by heaven? If she had such luck, she would have had a brother long ago.

No, then there might not be me, maybe not even Sanjie.

Suddenly, I remembered what the Taoist had said to me, "Watch your words and actions."

Seven months ago, I said I would rather invite trouble than invite a brother.

Half a month ago, I wished for my mother to be free from the pain of childbirth.

It turns out the Taoist's watch your words and actions wasn't meant for my grandmother—it was meant for me.

I suddenly realized.

It was as if I saw a glimmer of hope in the darkness.

"I want to go to school! I want to be the top student! I want to make lots of money!" I shouted loudly as I ran.

The villagers saw me acting strangely and whispered behind me, "What a good girl. Her brother's death drove her mad."

Whether it was a kind compliment or a malicious guess, I didn't care anymore. I only knew I was saved!

I refused to be like my mother, trapped in this square courtyard for life. I want to live for myself.

I wanted to leave here.

Leave.