Explore "Revolution Is Not a Dinner Party" by Ying Chang Compestine on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
The days slowly moved on. Mother and I struggled to get enough to eat, coal for our little stove, oil for the lamp, and water for cooking and washing. Yet we rarely spoke to each other.
Outside, green buds quietly turned to full leaves on the milk trees. One morning after work, instead of going to her room, Mother sat down at the table. "Come here, Ling. I need to talk to you."