"The Three of Us—A Tribute to Love That Transcends Family Ties"

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【VII. Myself—My Family, My Love】

School matters weren't complicated. I didn't choose a supervisor for my graduation project; I directly applied for a science and technology competition in my field. Therefore, I had almost complete freedom; I chose my own topic. It was finished after just a few signatures, allowing me to complete the graduation procedures ahead of schedule and leave school a few months earlier than my classmates.
However, I did find a job—a company in Beijing that would provide a Beijing residency permit. The company just wanted me to start work as soon as possible to participate in the initial equipment construction. I was the first person from the college, besides those recruited internally, to find a job, and the only one recommended and hired by my supervisor. But I had reservations and wanted to go back to my hometown, while my parents advised me not to return and to go directly to my new company.

After reporting to my company, I immediately rented a small room in the factory's 100,000-square-meter residential area. That very night, I had my parents come to Beijing. My father wasn't as disheveled as I had imagined; on the contrary, he was extremely excited. Every day, he repaired and fixed various parts of my apartment, even suggesting where to put a crib and where to build shelves. It was planned entirely as a wedding home—actually just a small, temporary rental. We hardly ever used the shelves he made ourselves.

The apartment was tiny, and we still slept huddled together at night, which Dad actually preferred. He said, "I always wished the house wouldn't be cold, so I wouldn't have to use a big quilt." Haha.
After contacting hospitals in Beijing, we realized we couldn't afford to get sick. Out-of-towners in Beijing can't afford to stay! They can't afford to get sick! Our family was caught in both categories. Dad, however, was happy. He didn't like hospitalization and preferred sleeping with us.
In the Beijing apartment, Mom and I weren't interested in sex, but Dad was in high spirits. He often pressed his face close, holding Mom's hand with one hand and supporting my back with the other. He said he liked falling asleep to our voices. And it was true; many times, while Mom and I were still making love, Dad would start snoring. Dad especially liked cleaning us up after I ejaculated, and would often put himself in and lie there for a while. Dad called it "flood control and leak plugging." As an aside, during a major flood in their youth, my father carried my mother across a river on his back, and that's when their love blossomed. Love back then was so pure and unforgettable.

Despite the high cost, the hospitals in Beijing were reliable in controlling my condition. After more than a year in Beijing, my father's condition remained stable. During that time, they explored almost every free place in the surrounding area. They even took me to the tent camp at the foot of the Great Wall—the place that taught me masturbation and how to woo girls. It was windy that day, and the poplar leaves overhead rustled loudly. It was the first time my parents had ever spoken so openly. When I was little, they were considerate of me, suppressing their voices, only speaking softly and laughing loudly; in their Beijing apartment, they were afraid the neighbors would hear, so they still suppressed themselves; at the tent camp, the three of us were completely uninhibited for the first time. Recklessly wild.
Later, they became obsessed with finding me a partner—those matchmaking events in parks where people wore my picture around their necks, which were actually arranged by my parents. I don't know where their enthusiasm came from, but they firmly believed that out-of-towners without a house or savings could find local wives.
Only at night, when the three of us cuddled together, my parents firmly believed I was the most outstanding, that their daughter-in-law was the happiest, and that their son was the most responsible.
Actually, I betrayed their trust. I didn't meet my current wife, hh, until the end of my third year of work, and it took another year before we officially moved in together.

My father couldn't witness our marriage, and he never even met my wife, hh.
hh said she had actually met my parents. When she was interning at a hospital, she heard about an elderly couple in the ward who slept nose-to-nose, so she went to check on them. She even took pictures and posted them on social media. That elderly couple was my parents, though I only recently found out.

Back to my father. At the time, we didn't have money for treatment, so we planned to sell our house in the city—actually, it was a "voucher house" that we'd never lived in. However, fate played a cruel trick; due to problems with the property certificate, the transfer of ownership never went through before my father passed away. Unable to repay the borrowed money, and without many relatives or friends to lend to, my father ultimately left us.
Fate seemed to be deliberately mocking us. A month after Dad left, the property certificate arrived. The disappointment outweighed the excitement; I felt a deep sense of loss, lamenting that Dad had always wanted a big house, yet spent his entire life crammed into a small one.

Heartbreaking place, heartbreaking people, heartbreaking events. Mom and I decided to sell our old house in the city and never go back.
Only when I have enough money for a down payment in Beijing and my work is stable will I have the courage to make friends—I truly envy my parents' love; even a dilapidated house with cracks in the walls became their new home.
In my own house, I often think back to my parents' little house. Dad always longed for a spacious and bright place, no longer having the three of us squeezed into one bed. Actually, Mom and I didn't feel particularly miserable. Dad's thoughtfulness, resilience, and optimism were the most shining things in that little house. After I joined their sex life, Dad was actually influencing me. With him around, we truly didn't feel the hardships of life. "There are gains and losses, but eventually, one can rise above others"—these aren't Dad's exact words, but the meaning is the same.
He said: "My grandfather's generation had a bad class background and lived at the bottom of society; my father's generation had bad luck and struggled to escape the countryside, eventually improving their lives; my generation, with our education, will definitely be able to settle down in the capital and leave our small village; my children will be born with Beijing residency and will never have to worry about schooling or housing." My father doesn't aspire to great success; he only hopes that each generation can advance a step further.
His philosophy is clear and steady—go out without hesitation, take one step at a time; come home to enjoy family affection and be selfless and tolerant.
"Your father has been quite happy in his life," my mother said. "I'm very content with him!"
"Me too!"

After we got together, they worried about my education and future family relationships. By then, my parents knew how to use the internet and found many cases similar to ours. They had agreed that once I had my own family, the three of us would completely withdraw and there would be no more sexual contact. At the time, I didn't understand my parents' good intentions.
Since my girlfriend and I started living together, my mother has completely cut off any sexual contact between us, and she even refuses to be alone with me. She says, "This was something I discussed with your father beforehand." To this end, my mother even applied for a job as a cafeteria worker at a kindergarten and moved in there (her retired teacher's certificate isn't recognized in our hometown, but she still insisted on getting the job).

And that's not all. To try and correct my views, my mother and my girlfriend sometimes go shopping together, quite often. They have completely different personalities, a huge age gap, conflicting regional customs, and drastically different shopping habits, yet they always manage to come back with huge piles of stuff, full of joy. It's truly bizarre. When I ask them about it, they both say, "We've run out of things to talk about, talking about you gives us something to talk about." I suspect even my habit of being too lazy to turn my socks inside out becomes a tool for communication between them.
I'm really afraid that my mother might accidentally reveal our incestuous relationship. As it turns out: I was overthinking it.

Yes. This is the first time I've used the term "incest" here. Before, I always used the phrase "the love between the three of us." I always believed that what we had was love, not lust. My father loved my mother; he would write her a one-page letter every day while he was away on his mining trip. My mother loved my father; she married him when he was at his poorest. My parents loved me; they transcended ethics to give me sexual satisfaction.
When change was needed, my father could abandon "the three of us" to drive long-distance mining trucks, and my mother could have sexual relations with her son for my father's emotional stability. Of course, she could also decisively break up with him after I found a girlfriend.
I believe this is love! Especially after I had my own child, I always wanted to give her everything. I also slowly understood my parents' good intentions and sacrifices. Moreover, my parents sacrificed more than other parents.

Later, after getting married, having children, and starting my own family, I transferred my love elsewhere. Until one day, my child fell asleep. The little one lay between me and HH, still nursing in his sleep. Suddenly, it reminded me of the love story of "The Three of Us."

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