"Song of the Seven Sons" and "Beijing Welcomes You" are the two songs that left the deepest impression on my childhood. Even now, I still hum them, and they are like a thread pulling me back to my childhood.

In 2008, as a little child, I couldn't understand the significance of the grand Olympic Games. All I knew was that my father went to Beijing to join the celebration, that the melody "My door is always open, embracing the world with open arms" lingered in the air, that everyone loved themselves, and that every person around me wore a happy smile. Even now, I still regret falling asleep during the opening ceremony and missing that most hopeful Olympic Games ever.

A year older, I remember my mother crying every night. My parents took me to many hospitals, traveling far and wide, from Beijing to Shanghai, and finally I was cured at Xijing Hospital. Perhaps that's why they later settled in Shaanxi. The first time I stayed in a high-rise building of twenty or thirty floors was in the hospital ward. My father pointed at the busy traffic below and said, "Look at those cars, don't they look like ants?" Indeed, life is like an ant, but even today, I still want to find the meaning of an ant. I can't remember anything about the surgery, nor do I recall the feeling of general anesthesia. The doctor advised no strenuous activity for a few years, but I still ran and jumped out of the hospital. My parents didn't stop me; they just smiled. As a child, I was only happy to finally leave a place that trapped me. Now, thinking back, it was the heavy stone in their hearts that had finally fallen.

As I grew older, my family was in a good financial situation. My father simply asked which school I liked and sent me there. In music class, I sang over and over again, "Do you know that Macau is not my true surname? I have been away from you for too long, Mother." A child doesn't understand what national reunification is; I only knew that I couldn't leave my mother, the mother who cried day and night for me.

My mother wouldn't take me to eat KFC, but every Spring Festival when we went home, I could have the only KFC of the year. As a child, being able to eat KFC was the greatest satisfaction; I could be happy for an entire week. Looking back now, my childhood self was really easy to please.

My childhood was very fortunate and happy. Fortunate that everyone was prosperous back then, fortunate that my family was well-off enough to cure my illness, fortunate that I had such loving parents, fortunate that I had a group of loving family members, fortunate that everyone in that era wore hope on their faces. It was because of this fortune that I was happy. It is precisely because of this past fortune and happiness that I cherish those memories—cherishing the self that could be satisfied so easily, the most innocent and naive self.

My mother always says, "Don't judge your father by his lack of seriousness. He climbed out of the mountains step by step and built everything from scratch to achieve what he has today."

Then later, the world changed—became complicated, suspicious, questioning. My father was deceived in a project and lost everything. Later, he stepped into muddy water, shouldering tens of millions in debt. Those so-called "friends" no longer helped him, and they even scared away my brother's girlfriend and her family. Our family lived frugally. Fortunately, everyone in the family worked together and emerged from the shadows over the course of ten years—but my father was no longer young.

I was rebellious, but their overflowing love, the happy times of childhood, and my parents' refusal to give up on me made me love this family, love this world, and support me in the hardest days to step out of the shadows step by step, just like my father.

I love this world and want to love everyone tenderly.