SATV 14 August 2025, Kathmandu: The sky had just begun to lighten, and the streets of Changge City were not yet fully awake. Occasionally, a few tricycles rolled slowly by, their wheels crunching on the asphalt, the cargo bed clattering heavily whenever passing over a rut. At this moment, my mother was already standing by the shop door, holding the keys. As she pushed up the metal shutter, the clattering sound broke the morning silence, sharp and clear in the cool air. The lights came on — dim and warm — illuminating the small eighty-square-meter supermarket with exceptional clarity.
The counter stood quietly at the entrance, its glass surface marked by the scars of time — some parts even shattered. In one corner, a thin scratch traced a winding line — a “little river” I had carved with a metal tool when I was a child. It meandered across the counter, like a childhood stream flowing through my mother’s twelve years and my entire growing-up years.
Eighty square meters isn’t large, but it’s like a miniature Changge City. The shelves stood densely packed with snacks, cigarettes, liquor, soap, detergent, stationery, and toys — everything one might need. Near the cash register, the freezer quietly held sodas, ice creams, yogurts, and various drinks. In summer, the freezer was like a cool lake, absorbing the heat from every customer.
Mother is a simple and frugal woman. When a shelf breaks, she finds a familiar hand to fix it; when a light bulb burns out, she won’t hire anyone to replace it, instead climbing a stool to fumble her way through the repair herself. Even the plastic bags for packaging goods are carefully folded to be reused next time. In winter, when the glass door was broken and drafty, she simply wore an old cotton coat behind the counter and warmed herself by a small heater. In the scorching summer, she refused to install air conditioning, relying instead on the old electric fan that creaked and groaned. The money saved mostly went into buying stock. She remembers clearly every time a wholesaler offered even a few cents cheaper. To save more, she often rode her electric bike, hauling dozens of kilos of flour and boxes of snacks home bit by bit.
I tried to persuade her not to work so hard, but she would just smile. People say her small store knows news faster than a phone — who bought a new house, who got into college, who’s getting married — as long as mother sits behind the counter, these stories float in like a breeze and gather into a lively river in her laughter.
Mother used to work in a shopping mall. Back when I was in kindergarten, I loved going to work with her. That place felt like a paradise, and I always thought, how wonderful it would be if we had our own supermarket… Mother often bought discounted fruits after sales ended. But when she saw the flattery and politicking for promotions in the mall, she couldn’t stand the atmosphere. By chance, a supermarket downstairs was up for transfer, and she became the “store manager” of her own shop.
That year, we took over this abandoned little store — my dream came true. At first, she was full of confidence, but as more and more supermarkets opened, customers gradually dwindled and business cooled down. Yet mother never gave up. Regardless of business conditions, she opened at six every morning and closed at ten every night, always waiting for the “last customer” to leave before turning off the lights. She believed that when others’ stores closed, hers would be the best choice. Even if she only sold a few dozen yuan a day, she arranged the shelves neatly.
Someone once advised her, “This isn’t profitable; it’d be better to transfer the store.”
Mother only smiled, “I’m used to this work; if I change, it will be harder.”
For decades, rest was almost a “crime” in her dictionary. Even when sick, she went to work. At noon, she’d sit behind the counter and take a short nap — in our Henan dialect, it’s called “zaizui.”
Mother has three brothers living elsewhere, but she takes care of my grandparents. Every week, she returns to help with their daily needs. Her palms are covered with thick, rough calluses, like tree bark, yet she always gently hands over change and goods. Those calluses are marks of time and the testimony of more than ten years behind this little counter.
Once, the store was fined a thousand yuan by a “professional complaint” for selling expired goods. Mother was getting older and missed a few details during inspection. I was angry and told her to quit since she might lose money instead of earning. But she remained stubborn: “Today’s difficulties pave the way for tomorrow.”
Time flew. I grew from a naive boy into an adult studying far away in Nepal. Mother always said, “If you don’t go out, how can you find a way out?” I envied the children from wealthy families, but my mother — forever simple — gave me the courage to face the world. Whenever I face difficulties, I think of her — that figure behind the eighty-square-meter shop who never bows her head.
The eighty-square-meter supermarket is like a small boat, carrying us from the “little river” toward the wider sea. Standing behind the counter, mother’s gaze passes through the shelves, looking not at profits and losses, but far beyond — to the future in her heart.
Her future hopes are modest. She says that when I am truly steady on my feet and able to face life alone, she will close the store, clean up the house, keep a small courtyard with a few flowers, and sit in a rattan chair, slowly sipping hot tea as sunlight pours through the window. She wants to see more of the world — not bustling cities, but rivers, mountains, and other people’s lives; to walk roads she has only ever seen on TV.
But I know, even if she closes the store, she will still keep busy. Those callused hands won’t be idle. She will help friends move goods, bring supplies to the rural elderly, and hand me a warm bowl of soup when I come home. Her world may leave the counter, but the spirit of the counter is etched deep into her bones.
What mother taught me wasn’t how to make money, but how to stand firm — when the morning wind blows, when business is slow, when others tell you to give up. She made me understand that persistence is not stubbornness, but a way to wrestle with life; frugality is not stinginess, but respect for living.
The little eighty-square-meter store is her battlefield and her home. Now I realize, what she guards isn’t the snacks and drinks on the shelves, but the integrity and dignity of life.
