It is early morning when I rise. I can hear the farm waking up around me: the goats stirring, the pigs snorting. The house creaks. The tea kettle whistles. The morning begins.

Ever so slowly, I open my eyes. I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and let my toes sink into the rug. I get dressed in my work clothes and make my way down to the kitchen. Ma Ma’s spoon clinks against the edge of her teacup as she stirs the morning’s brew. She smiles when she sees me.

My father is busy with his breakfast, but he looks up as I enter and says, “Good morning Chan Hua.” I reply with good morning and head out to begin my morning chores. Older children of the village pick their way along the edge of our fence as they hurry to school. I am only four, but when I turn five, I will go with them. I long for the days when I can join them at school to learn new things. I am hungry for knowledge.

I stand on my tippy-toes and dump slop into the pigs’ troughs. I am not yet strong enough to milk the goats, but there are other things to be done. I feed the animals, and muck the pens and stalls. I sweep and clean the house with my mother. With my jobs finished, I am free to do as I please. Today, I am exploring. I run through the fields and over the hills to the stream. I take my shoes off and walk back and forth until my ankles feel numb. I run, and climb trees, and jump logs until the sun begins to dip below the horizon, at which point I run home as fast as I can. I stop only when I reach the familiar fields of home.

As I near the house, I hear my parents talking in the kitchen. They use low voices, and I duck beneath the open window to listen.

“This is not going to work. She is never going to be enough. I need a man who can help me on this farm,” says my father.

“She will never be able to help you the way a son can, but she’s all we have, and she’s all we are ever going to have. You know as well as I that that’s the way the law is written.”

They must be talking about the One Child Law. I remember my father explaining population growth rates to me and how they are going up too fast. I recall him saying that each family is allowed only one child to slow these rates.

I remember the facts of the law, but I hadn’t realized that I was a part of it. I am the only child my parents will ever have according to this law. I am the only child who can pass on the family name and run the farm. I am the only opportunity for an “heir” to my father and I have blown it. I was born a girl, and that is all I will ever be. The family line ends here, and the farm cannot go on. The end of family tradition is near, all because of me.

The tears begin slowly, creating thin lines down my cheeks. My heart sinks lower and lower, until it falls to the ground and cracks in two. I slump against the house as huge sobs shake me. There is absolutely nothing I can do. I sink lower and lower until I am a crumpled heap under the kitchen window. I feel as though I have discovered the truth of a lifetime, yet I am only four years old. The crying is exhausting, and I can not help wanting to curl up in my bed. I slowly find my room and bury my head in the mattress. I comfort myself with the image of a bright new day. And with that, I drift off to sleep.

I wake to the sound of a strange and unfamiliar noise. The air is fraught with mist, and the bed feels cold and stiff beneath me. Even though my eyes are closed, I can feel that the night has not yet ended. I plan to go back to sleep, so I roll over onto my stomach.
In this very instant, everything in my world changes. Everything shifts because there is no mattress beneath me; there is nothing there but a thick slab of concrete. I open my eyes for the first time and find that my farm is gone. I am laying on the side of a highway. I am completely and utterly alone because while I slept, my farm abandoned me. It left me here because I am not worthy of a family or a house. It left me because I am not enough for my government or country. I am just a little girl. I don't even deserve my name any longer.

To China, I am just an extra number in a population count that needs to be terminated. As I sit sprawled over the concrete, a single tear escapes my eye. It makes the long descent to my chin where it falls to become a little gray spot in the concrete. I watch as it sinks deeper and deeper until it is nothing more than a memory. There is little hope for me now. But, in my place, there is a little boy. He will take on the job of “only child” on my farm. He will be the only child of my parents because I no longer exist to them. He will run my farm and carry on the family name just as I was supposed to. He will have hope, while I will not. The end of my story lies in a single question. If it takes two chances for every family in China to get their “only child” just right, then where are all the children like me? Where are the “only children” who don’t exist to the world? How do they go on? Well, they pick themselves up off the side of the highway, and they start walking. As no one’s only child, that’s all they can do.