Most people are not born with the impulse to shoulder everything. And maybe she wasn’t either. But the way she bore her burden made her strength seem like a gift from the immortals. She bore it so well perhaps it’d be hard to notice, to imagine she’d once been a little girl to whom “strength” was a foreign word.

She was born with a heart defect. Later, she’d reflect back and chuckle, laugh at the pain of not being able to join her friends on the playground for long, not being about to take part in PE activities. As if it were no big deal to her. And maybe it isn’t, now. But at the young age of 15, she was wheeled in to an operation room, her family clutching her hand. I imagine her father whispered words of encouragement to her, before she went inside, had her ribs opened, her heart mended, and her chest sewn back together. I imagine she was like a lifeless doll on the surgery table. Small and pale and stiff. Eyes closed from anaesthesia, her tiny body on the glaring white of the surgery table, blinding florescent lights shining down as the doctors worked on her with their sharp, gleaming tools. I imagine the heads of the doctors a bright turquoise, and their masks a ghastly white. I imagine a gushing red out of the deep cut in the middle of her chest. I imagine the freezing cold of the surgery room, like a body refrigerator.

Of course, this would all probably better than what she had went through. In her day, conditions would not have been so favourable. Maybe that was why, when they sewed her up, they did it with iron. A long scar ran down her chest, angry red while healing, soft pink when scarred over. A life long mark of her journey.

I imagine the scar burned sometimes. Like when she lost her father. She was 18, out and away in college. The news of her fathers death hit her like a ton of bricks. She sat down where she was. Hard. I imagine that pain, that bewilderedness, to be on parr with that of having the world collapse on you. The pain of losing the man who was there for her and who loved her like no one else, is indescribable. It was like having her heart torn out of her rib cage. I imagine her heart beat hard with this thought, as though it had heard her. The iron in her ribs felt, for the first time, oppressive. Like an iron cage.

She traveled back to her hometown. To attend the funeral. Her father’s best friend said the eulogy, because she knew she couldn’t make it through a speech for him without bursting into tears. She doubted she could even talk, even squeeze a word out of her throat. His best friend spoke of memories, of love, and for a second she thought she would make it through the eulogy without breaking down. Then he ended the speech with a sentence that included “爸爸“ (“dad”). Hearing the word was the final nail in the coffin, the final reminder that she could no longer deny the loss of her fathe. I imagine she felt the iron cage cave in, pushing her heart so hard she couldn’t breathe. Through her tears and her broken sobs, she saw her younger brother and her mother. She heard, through her ragged breathing, his cries and tears. He was 10 years younger than she. The idea that he might not remember their father flashed in her mind. I imagine she knew, then, that she needed to be strong. For him.

The next few years passed quietly. Her heart didn’t screech in pain when someone mentioned “father” anymore. She didn’t walk away from any conversation that mentioned “father” anymore. She didn’t break down in sobs when she though of him anymore. Time blurred his face in her memories, and the pain with it. The edges of the stake her father’s death had driven deep into her heart lost its sting. I imagine the iron cage no longer pushing on her heart.

She helped raise her brother. She was a student herself, but with her extra work, she earned enough to help her mother raise the little boy. Sometimes she even had enough to take him out to KFC, sometimes to the movies. She took him with her everywhere. He grew tall, taller than her. He misbehaved sometimes, and then she, secretly delighting in the power her old sister status endowed upon her, would punish him. All was quiet and peaceful.

1998. The first time she left her native country. It was funny; she had studied Japanese in college, but when the time came to pursue further education, she chose America. She was a young girl in Florida. New language, new jobs, new people. I imagine she cried late at night. Quietly, so her roommate wouldn’t hear. I imagine she missed her home, her family, but she wasn’t ready to go back yet.

She worked many part time jobs. Disney, Shangri-La, restaurants she can’t name now… After some time, she became more confident in herself, and knew what she wanted. She was even a little rebellious: when her boss said that every employee with long hair must tie up their hair, she refused. But they never said anything, just smiled at her.

It was at a grocery store that she met him. She was working as a cashier and he was 12 years older than her. He was shy though, and said nothing more to her except “Can I have a bag?” in their native tongue. So instead, it was his mother that came to her, asking her for her number. She smiled at the old lady and yearned for someone she could talk to without having to pause to recollect a word’s meaning or pronunciation. So she gave the nice old lady her number.

He began calling often, and they went out on dates. He was well-established, at least to her. A professor at a nearby college. Her friends thought he was scary, a serious math teacher. She laughed; she didn’t understand it. He may be older than her in age, but he acted like a boy most times.

He wasn’t romantic. Theirs wasn’t a courtship whirling with roses and candles and chocolates. But he did teach her how to drive in his old, ink-green Ford. They enjoyed each other’s company, and she enjoyed the wisdom he had. So in 4 years, when he called her and asked her, squirming and blushing, to marry him, she said yes. They had a ceremony in America and in China. In America, she wore a gorgeous white dress, with a trail and a veil and a high collar. In China, she wore a traditional Chinese cheongsam. A beautiful, brilliant, vibrant red, for her big day. I imagine that on the day of her wedding, she felt her heart pushing against the iron in her ribs again. There’d be no strong hand to send her off, no strict stare into the eyes of her groom, no reassuring pat on her back. But I imagine the iron around her heart felt comforting this time. Here, it was familiar. A reminder of who she was. She walked down the isle twice, on her uncle’s arm. She was a Mrs. now.

Her daughter came along one year after their marriage, on a beautiful summer day. They were in Michigan now, because her husband had received a job at a college there. She enjoyed her work as an accountant, and she enjoyed her work environment. When her daughter was born, she asked to hold her. She looked down at the baby’s tiny face, and though to herself, involuntarily, how ugly the baby was, before laughing at her own absurdity. She knew what name her husband wanted, but she insisted upon her daughter’s middle name. Her child would have some part of her name. She insisted. And so it was. Her daughter smuggled up against her chest, and she felt the iron of her ribs singing to the child. Her child.

She tried to raise the child while keeping her job, but it was hard. She worked in Indiana, but her husband worked in Michigan. She couldn’t get a good night’s sleep and was constantly alone in her struggle. She had no family here, and friends can’t raise your child for you. I imagine she cried in the middle of the night when her daughter woke, begging her child to go to sleep. She had to drive hours to get her daughter to daycare, to appointments. I imagine that during this time she would remember the singing of the iron in her to the child and comfort herself.

She’d always been independent. As a child, to a teenager, to an adult. She was never dependent on anybody for her well-being. So she’d always assumed she would be economically independent even after her marriage. But this child took things from her, and though she loved her child and adored the feeling of work, she couldn’t do it any longer. She handed in her resignation statement to her boss one day, finally bowing to the pressure of life. He looked on at her sympathetically. “You can come back whenever, if you like.” He said. She thanked him, grateful for his trust.

But she knew she wouldn’t be able to come back. On her way out, I imagine the box of her things she had cleared from her cubicle rubbed against the iron in her chest, and I imagine she straightened her back a little. The iron was a reminder of her strength.

She was now a stay-at-home mom.

Four years after her daughter was born, she decided to have another child. She was watching the little girl play in their living room. The toddler talked to herself and had fun, but the image of a lone little girl in a large living room stuck with her. I imagine that she remembered her own brother, and so that night, she decided to have a second child.

Her son came in autumn. He was a fat little baby, and she smiled when she held him for the first time. I imagine she once again felt the singing of the iron to the child. He was a more well-behaved child. While her daughter sprung around and was walking soon, exploring every inch of their cabinets and closets, her son was still and content. His sister played with him sometimes, but mostly, she just teased him. She was quicker on her feet and fearless, a loud toddler. He was kind and more sensitive, a little care-bear. She always joked that she had given birth to them with the wrong genders.

Every time she saw them, her heart burst with love and pride. I imagine the iron around her heart was no longer needed for comfort, because she was a mother now.

Some days, when she was tired or annoyed, she yearned for the freedom of work. She longed to be out at work and when she saw her friends become successful, a tiny part of her was overtaken by the green eyed monster. But she was happy.

She had become stronger and more confident. I imagine she no longer felt a cage of  iron oppressing her. I imagine she felt armour, iron armour, that protected herself and her loved ones from the world. It held everything valuable and protected it. She had become a knight in shining armour. In her suit of iron.