There is nothing new under the sun.

Born in a remote SW Chinese village, I barely knew my father—he worked in coastal real estate for ten years. As an adult, we road-tripped; he shared boom-and-bust stories of migrant life.

The Jianlong Bridge

In the dim light, my father’s gaunt, sallow face was half‑hidden in swirling smoke, and his voice drifted out through the haze: “Back then, your second uncle’s construction crew was working on that bridge. They were rushing through the night shift, and when they were about halfway done, the bridge collapsed. Your second uncle managed to crawl along the steel bars to reach a wheelbarrow and escape. They tried repairing it several times after that, but it never held – it kept caving in.”

“I don’t buy all that supernatural talk you’re going on about – that’s just feudal superstition,” I said.

“Well, if you don’t believe me, go ask your second uncle yourself one of these days and see if I’m lying. Their boss was superstitious too – before every shift, he’d slaughter chickens and ducks to celebrate the start of work. After the accident, he quickly found a local Taoist priest to do a divination, and the next night he held a ritual under the bridge arch. The priest advised him to restore the temple nearby and not leave it damaged.

After the boss finished the ritual, your second uncle took all the chicken, duck, fish, and meat home and shared them with the family. At the end of that year, your second uncle made a special trip back to his hometown. ‘Damn,’ he said, ‘if I’d died in that accident without even seeing my own son one last time, that would have been just heartbreaking.’”

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The Gold Necklace Incident

My old man suddenly slammed the door open, grabbed a rusty steel pipe from behind it, and barked, “Siwa, come with me!”

“What the hell for?” I asked.

“Your mom’s in a fight with someone!”

“Huh?” I put down my phone and ran out with him. We rushed over to another temporary construction shed. My mother was sitting on the ground, one foot braced against the floor, the other leg stretched out, her hand clutching her head and resting on her knee. “Who just hit her?” my father demanded, pointing at my mother. Then he clenched his fist and swung at a burly woman a head taller than him, but two men, also a head taller, blocked his punch with their hands. Two site security guards rushed in and pinned his arms behind his back, hoisting him up like an enraged rooster whose wings are held off the ground – but he was still cursing and swearing loudly.

Then police sirens sounded from outside the site, and someone in the crowd yelled, “Who the hell called the cops? Isn’t this enough trouble already? Damn it!”

Back home that night, with the door closed, my mother stood with her hands on her hips and said, “Just now, before all of you even gathered around, I grabbed her hair with one hand and took a steel bar with the other – I whipped her right on the leg. Only that one security guard who’s friendly with us saw it.”

My father turned his head away impatiently, flicked the ash from his cigarette, and said, “You always stir up trouble for me. Last time it was the gold necklace that got lost, and now it’s another fight over the same thing. I don’t even want to talk about you.”

My mother turned her head to the other side and muttered, “Then just don’t bother with me from now on.”