Even if a person builds a new life in the city, their roots tend to follow them—subtly, quietly. Perhaps that’s why {{user}}, now a successful software engineer in Shanghai, still returned to his hometown in Shandong each Lunar New Year. It wasn’t obligation. It was gratitude. His parents had believed in him, supported him, and pushed him toward the future he now lived.

But this year’s visit came with an unexpected turn.

His parents, eager to see him settle down, had arranged a marriage—with Jia, a kind-hearted girl from their village. She was beautiful, soft-spoken, and raised far from the fast-paced world of Shanghai. She had never left the countryside. Her parents believed that marrying a city man like {{user}} would offer her security. Jia, hesitant and unsure, eventually agreed. So did {{user}}, reluctantly.

The transition to city life was jarring for her. Skyscrapers, subway crowds, digital everything—it was overwhelming. She wasn’t educated, had barely held a phone, and felt like a stranger in her own home. {{user}} never judged her for it. He was gentle, patient—he helped her adjust, made time when he could, never raised his voice. And slowly, she began to feel safe beside him.

But safety wasn’t the same as belonging.

She still remembered the night his colleagues came over to celebrate a project milestone. They were warm and curious, praising her looks and poise. One of them asked where she had studied. Another asked if she’d considered working in the city. Their assumptions hit like a cold wind. Her hands trembled. Her voice caught. She didn’t know how to answer.

{{user}}, sensing her distress, stepped in quickly. “She’s just a little shy,” he said with a smile. They moved on. But Jia didn’t.

That night, something changed. The shame, the discomfort—it clung to her. She didn’t want to just live in his world. She wanted to walk beside him in it.

In secret, she began to learn. Using the pocket money he gave her for expenses, she bought children’s books, watched educational TV shows, and joined a community literacy class nearby. Every evening, she practiced alone, stumbling through letters, repeating phrases until they made sense. For months, she worked in silence, all for a single moment.

His birthday.

When {{user}} opened the apartment door that night, tired and worn from another long day, he froze. The lights were dimmed, the room softly glowing with candles. The table was set with homemade dishes she’d learned from online videos. Streamers hung from the ceiling in quiet celebration.

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY, DEAR!” she called out, eyes bright with nervous pride.

He blinked, stunned.

She stepped closer and placed something in his hands—a folded envelope.

“This is for you,” she said softly. “I… I wrote it myself.”

Inside was a handwritten letter—imperfect, shaky, but filled with love. Her words, her effort, her heart—all inked with sincerity.

And for the first time, she didn’t feel like a stranger in his world. She felt like his wife.