Happiness Is - Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Happiness is lying between Mom and Dad while banishing little Tí to the edge of the bed.

It is grinning proudly, showing off a mouthful of missing baby teeth, when Dad says, “Daddy loves his little girl the most. You’re Daddy’s daughter. Your mother was only teasing you. Daddy’s little girl was never picked up from some garbage dump, you know...”

Happiness is counting down every day, every hour, waiting for Uncle to come home from school in another town.

It is being thrilled by the thought, Tonight, I’m going to stay up and welcome the New Year with Grandpa.

And then promptly falling asleep in his arms until morning, blinking sleepily and rubbing your eyes as you mumble,

“Why didn’t you wake me up, Grandpa?”

Happiness is seeing Mom and Dad peaceful together during Tet, instead of arguing and smashing dishes like they did in previous years.

It is seeing Mom smile gently at Dad, and Dad pulling the two sisters into his arms.

It is receiving lucky money tucked inside bright red envelopes.

Happiness is sitting beside Grandpa, plucking a little apricot blossom leaf to welcome new blessings, new flowers, and a brand-new year.

Happiness is secretly feeling proud because, out of all the grandchildren, you are the only one allowed to “meddle” with Grandpa’s beloved potted plants.

Happiness is being the only one he asks,

“Is this tree pretty yet, Xíu?”

Happiness is—once again, only you—being called Grandpa’s eldest granddaughter.

A child’s happiness is really that simple.

It is the little moments of childhood, cherished in the arms of Mom and Dad, soothed by the love of grandparents, and sheltered inside the memories created with aunts and uncles.

A child’s happiness is having their efforts recognized, even before they truly understand what all that effort is supposed to lead to.

Because to a child, it is enough to know that Mom and Dad are happy. That Grandpa and Grandma are proud.

That is enough.

A child’s happiness is simply seeing the grown-ups around them finally relax and laugh.

Sometimes they do not understand those tired eyes. They do not understand why, even when they have done nothing wrong, they are still scolded and told to keep quiet. They do not understand all those other little “why is this so unfair?” questions that once made them curl up beside their little brother and cry in frustration.

Sometimes the two of them would simply hug each other, turn their faces toward the wall, and cry.

And yet...

No matter how many of those things happened, a child could forget every single one of them in the blink of an eye.

One moment, there were tears.

The next, there was laughter.

And that was happiness, in its simplest form.

Adults rarely apologize.

Adults rarely admit they are wrong.

And yet they are always telling children that they must “admit their mistakes and apologize.”

As a child, she had always thought that was very, very unfair.

And now, as this nineteen-year-old girl—wearing glasses, with darkened skin and still wonderfully chubby—sits here typing these words, she suddenly realizes something.

She is no different.

Even now, she finds it difficult to say I’m sorry.

And sometimes, even the simplest words of affection get stuck somewhere between her heart and her lips.

Adults—not her, of course. She is merely “someone old enough to know better but still refusing to grow up, pretending to reject her childishness while playing at judging grown-ups”—adults, who are apparently still just children who have accumulated too many birthdays and not quite enough maturity...

They seem to feel more embarrassed by some invisible thing than by the person they have hurt, the very person who deserves an apology.