A Visit to Yangshan

Part I: Serena’s POV

My first mistake is hitting snooze at seven. My second is lying awake, listening to my mother's treadmill whir while she sings along to Leslie Cheung's "Monica," the lyrics leaking from her earphones.

I open my bedroom door and Theresa appears. "Good morning, Ma'am. Coffee or tea?"

"Not now, Theresa."

"Yes, Ma'am."

Theresa vanishes and I head to the kitchen to inspect the refrigerator myself.

At twenty-nine, why am I still living at home? Technically, my parents can't stop me from leaving, but then who would take care of them? They would guilt-trip me forever. Chinese family bonds are cemented by guilt.

Mother appears in her blue-gray Lululemon, face glistening. "Serena." She looks at my face as if examining an oil painting. "You need more foundation. And tea tree oil, so your eczema doesn't return."

"Yes, Mom." I haven't had an outbreak since I was seventeen.

"See how much your mother cares for you?" She lifts a small bowl of congee from the counter - she seems to exist on five hundred calories a day. "I lost my golden years raising you."

She says that often, projecting the guilt again. "You look amazing, Mom."

"Dinesh will drive me to work," I tell Mom. "He already knows your schedule."

She pauses. "Richard Wong is back. Remember him? David Vong's son, the one who went to London."

"I don't have time for dating advice right now." Richard Wong's Instagram has become a carousel of pool parties and yacht trips. Not my type, but who knows. "I'll be back Wednesday, Mom."

"Fine, Serena, have a good trip."

On the way out, I see the front hallway empty, my father's shoes and briefcase missing. Being Monday, he'll be at the Dongguan factory, handing out "gift money" to government officials and collecting gossip from employees. Report on your coworker, and he might give you five hundred RMB. The next week, the person you reported on might report you. The net result: everyone gets a small bonus, and my father knows everything happening behind the scenes.

The dirty work, he says, so I can work in philanthropy.

"When will Ma'am be back?" Theresa eyes my suitcase.

"I'm not sure." I shrug; better that she doesn't know to keep her on her toes while I'm away.

The minivan waits downstairs. I slide into the backseat.

"Twenty-nine today," Dinesh says, his good morning the day's maximum temperature.

When I step into Children's Action office in Sheung Wan, the floor is quiet. Chloe in marketing looks up from her desk. "You're here early." Over her shoulder, I see her mobile: Douyin beauty videos - the twenty-year-old Chinese girls all look identical: tiny round faces, enormous eyes, small chins, bright red lipstick.

Chloe gives me a once-over. "Want to borrow concealer for that under-eye situation?" Her manicured finger wags at my face.

"I'll be fine."

She swipes to her next video.

I sit at my desk and open DonorPerfect: $24.2 million raised year-to-date. 180% of goal.

More important is who donated: The Li Shau-Kee Foundation. Alvin Wong, CEO of Shenzhen Syntech. Raymond Koo, HSBC Executive Director — people my family might do business with someday.

Jenny, our CEO, hands me today's HK01 newspaper. The headline "Jensen Huang and Tim Cook to Visit InnoEX " is circled in red.

"I'm asking Raymond to set up a meeting," she says.

"Yay! We are going to pitch Jensen Huang on the benefits of supporting vulnerable children in Asia. Count me in."

I wrap up emails and sign-offs. Last week's floods devastated Northern Guangdong. They've requested emergency funding despite not having completed their annual audit. I've booked a cross-border minivan under Children's Action. An intern bought me gifts from the stationery shop downstairs to bring along.

We head north, cross the border, and the signs change to simplified Chinese. We fly north on one of those brand-new highways they've built all over China.

My phone buzzes: Richard Wong: “Come to my yacht trip Sunday?”

A boozy yacht party? He needs to aim higher.

“Giving a keynote at Asia Youth Leaders,” I type back. “Might be free next Sunday. I put my mobile away. Always play hard to get.

As we leave the suburbs of Guangzhou and start to climb into the mountains, the road twists through curve after curve. The driver swerves to avoid downed trees, washed-out rocks and collapsed hillsides. I roll down the window and start filming B-roll for marketing: flooded rice paddies. Collapsed shacks. A dog barking on an island in a flooded intersection.

I do worry about what lies ahead.

Director Li lies in wait at the gate of Yangshan Children's Home. Her face is gray, her eyes drained. She clearly hasn't slept in days. The courtyard is ankle-deep in brown water. It sweeps in and out of the kitchen. Chopsticks and plastic utensils lie scattered everywhere.

"It must be hard," I say.

"I try my best."

My phone vibrates.

[Chloe]: there yet? jenny asked you send vid asap

I kneel in the mud, filming the debris. Xiao Ming—the boy I remember from last time—appears across the courtyard. He hesitates, puts his feet in the water and trudges toward me and Director Li. I stop adjusting the camera and rush to pick him up, my trousers becoming instantly soaked.

As Director Li guides me toward the dorm, a small figure darts through the shadows. Mei Mei. Barefoot, hair in uneven pigtails, clutching a plastic doll. She couldn't be more than six. Her eyes are wide, unblinking, locked on me with the intensity of a child who wants something.

She takes a step forward. Then another.

Director Li places a hand on her shoulder. "Go help Auntie Zhang," she says sharply.

Mei Mei's lips tremble. She rushes back inside, her flip-flops leaving wet footprints on the cement.

I remind myself that I'm here to do an M&E review.

I walk the grounds like a government auditor. In the playground, the slide has toppled into the mud, exposing its cement foundation. I pull out my iPad and log the damage:

Recreational equipment: capped at CNY 5,000 per fiscal year. [100% utilized.]

Children's Apparel: The storage room flooded to waist height, 50 pairs of canvas sneakers ruined. Wood cabinets soaked, likely mildewed within days. Estimated cost: CNY 12,000. Project mandate: Footwear limited to annual distribution only.

Educational Materials: The library's lower shelves are underwater. The books, picture books, textbooks, a complete set of Chinese encyclopedias are reduced to soggy pulp. Estimated cost: CNY 30,000. Project terms: Educational materials must be pre-approved by Beijing partner.

Asset Loss Inventory: The kitchen lost one hundred kilograms of dry rice, plus all dried ingredients and spices. The wet sacks burst, leaving the ground covered in swollen grains. Cost: ¥8,000. Project terms: Food aid restricted to government-approved vendors. Lead time: minimum fourteen days.

I log an Emergency Fund Reallocation request.

"It will take at least fourteen days to release funds," I tell Director Li. "Sign-offs. Auditing."

"We can't wait fifteen days," she says. "The children need to eat three times a day."

"I'll contact a few emergency donors."

Every dollar we distribute is tagged to a mandate. We can't simply buy things from the corner store because they can't track the money. And then, because we accept funds from Beijing Telecom, we must follow Chinese government rules for educational materials. And so on.

I upload videos to the Children's Action shared drive. Chloe's edits are already appearing in the /production folder:

Slow-motion: Xiao Ming walking through knee-deep water.

Waterlogged books in the library.

Mei Mei's face peering around a corner.

All captioned: “Help us rebuild hope. Click the link below and donate now.”

Dinner is congee and pickled mustard greens. The children sit on benches. Xiao Ming tugs my sleeve and I give him a hug. His pants are still wet. If I were his parent, I would get him dry clothes. But I know that's not my position here.

After dinner, I visit each child, handing out the gifts I brought.

Night falls, broken only by the generator's hum. In the admin office, Director Li has fallen asleep at her desk.

I feel guilty leaving, but I don't have a place to sleep, and staying would only create more distractions for them. I shake her shoulder until she stirs.

"I need to go."

She nods wearily.

"Here." I count out a stack of hundred-yuan notes—about 5,000. "For rice. Shoes. Books. Whatever they need."

I'm giving her my own money. 

Several children watch from the doorway, faces unreadable. Mei Mei sits at the far end, doll clutched to her chest, staring with the same intensity as before. It breaks my heart to see them like this. But we are helping.

I get into the car and don't look back. It would only make it harder.

[Chloe]: more video. maybe something with a dog or cat

I switch my mobile to airplane mode.

The drive to the hotel is silent. I stare out the window into the dark. Nothing to see except headlights cutting through mist, and the occasional flicker of light in a distant village.

Part II: Mei Mei’s POV

I am seven and three-quarters. Director Li says "three-quarters" is important because it means I'm almost eight, and eight-year-olds get to use the big scissors.

My name is Liu Mei Mei, but everyone calls me Mei Mei because it's easier to shout across the playground when I'm practicing the unicycle and don't notice class has started. I have pigtails that stick out like antennae and a gap where my front tooth fell out during Lantern Festival. I tried to throw the tooth onto the roof but I couldn't reach. Director Li threw it up there and it stayed. Having your tooth on the roof helps your new tooth grow tall and strong.

The sign in front says "Yangshan Children's Home," but Grandma calls it "that fancy boarding school with solar panels." She comes Monday and Thursday, and has to sit down after Director Li or Ms. Zang opens the gate. She brings steamed buns stuffed with pork and vegetables, still warm, wrapped in aluminum foil and a towel. She always gives me one White Rabbit candy. She signs the school's logbook with a pen she brings herself—a fancy old pen with blue ink—and hugs me for exactly ten seconds. I know because I count out loud and shout when I get to "ten."

Grandma's hands are cracked like the old plastic buckets in our shower room. She smells like Tiger Balm. She tells me stories about when Mama was little and chased chickens behind the old temple where she wasn't supposed to go. "Your mama was wild," she says, pinching my cheek. "Now she's run away wild to Shenzhen." I don't know what running wild is, or where Shenzhen is, but I don't think Mama is chasing chickens.

Mama comes twice a year—Spring Festival, and one random Sunday in October when the factory gives her a "compassion day." She arrives in a white van with Grandma, but she doesn't get out right away. She sits in the front seat, scrolling her phone, lips tight like she's chewing something sour. When she finally steps out, her clothes are so elegant and her shoes so shiny, and she smells like perfume. She hugs me for three seconds—I count in my head—then pushes me back to inspect my clothes.

"Mei Mei, your collar is crooked. Did you brush your teeth? Why is there dirt under your fingernails?"

My body starts to shake and I try not to cry.

"But Mei Mei is learning her characters and making friends," Grandma says. I show her my writing worksheets and she tells me to try harder.

Mama likes to complain. I keep a list in my head:

1. "The dorm smells like wet shoes." (It's the rain.)

2. "Why do they feed you mapo tofu? It's not for children." (It's my favorite food.)

3. "The playground swings are dirty. Don't sit on them." (Everything is dirty.)

4. "Don't trust Director Li. She looks greedy." (Director Li is nice to me.)

5. "This place costs me too much. What do they do with the money?" (She points at the solar panels. Director Li said they were a gift.)

Grandma rolls her eyes when Mama complains. After, she gives me an extra White Rabbit candy and whispers, "Can you believe, your mama was your age once."

Let me tell you about my room.

I sleep in Dormitory A, bunk 4, top bed. My blanket has a hole shaped like Guizhou province. At night, the mosquito net glows from the hallway light like a ghost. Below me is Xiao Lan; at the bottom is Ah Fen. We have name tags on our beds in fancy colorful letters because Director Li says it's "cheerful." Mine is peeling at the corner.

On the wall, I taped two photos:

1. Mama and me on my birthday, standing in front of the school pandas.

2. Grandma's big face.

Under the photos, I drew a family tree with crayon. Grandma is the big name on top. Grandpa is crossed out because he died. Then Mama and me below them. Other kids ask why I don't put my Papa there, but I never met him. Grandma says he died.

Last time Mama left, she gave Director Li a red packet and told her angrily, "I work twelve hours a day for this? For her to play with toys?" I don't know if she was talking about me or someone else.

Serena visits our school sometimes. She wears a black jacket like the women I see on television and has a purple streak in her hair. She smells like roses and brings me stickers: unicorns, stars, a hamster wearing headphones. That one is my favorite.

Last time, she climbed all the way up to my bed and sat with me. She asked me to tell her all my favorite things, and I listed everything I could think of, down to the tadpoles in the pond behind the school. She said she liked all the same things and promised to take me to a giant playground soon. She sat in my bed and combed my hair, and I think I saw her cry when she sang to me.

She gave me a paper crane folded from a brochure with our school's name on it. "We will keep you safe here," she said. I don't know who the "we" was, or who I needed to be safe from.

Last night, I dreamed Serena was my mama. She lived in a big house where everything was shiny and clean, and everywhere smelled like flowers. She drove me places in her black car and gave me ice cream for breakfast. She rode a unicycle too, and we went places on our unicycles. Grandma was there, but Mama wasn't. When I woke up, I screamed, and I was back in Yangshan Children's Home, and Xiao Lan was angry and told me to be quiet.

Next time Serena visits, I will ask her. I practiced in the bathroom mirror with my pigtails matching perfectly on both sides.

"Serena Jie-Jie, will you be my mother?"

I hope she says yes.