Dear Xu

One memory I never want to forget comes from my childhood. One afternoon, just before sunset, my parents, my sister, and I were all home. We decided to cook a simple meal together—pork rib soup.

Instead of eating in the dining room, we carried the whole pot to the balcony of my parents’ bedroom, where the warm sunlight shone directly on us. I still don’t know why that moment felt so special, but it became the best meal of my life.

Everything felt slow and peaceful. There was nothing to worry about, just the four of us sitting together, sharing a simple meal in the golden light of the evening. It was pure happiness.

I think about that evening sometimes now, when life feels hurried and crowded with responsibilities. Nothing remarkable happened that day, no celebration, no special occasion. Yet that small, ordinary moment has stayed with me more clearly than many bigger events. Maybe that is what makes it so meaningful. It reminds me that the shape of a life is often built not from grand milestones, but from quiet evenings like that one, when the sun is setting, the soup is still warm, and the people you love are sitting close beside you.