In the years before grandma passed away, mom often repeated a phrase.

Your grandma's last step really wasn't worth it.
I understand what she meant. Grandma had a fall in that winter, just before the New Year, in the main hall, and from then on she was bedridden, never getting up again.
And before that, she was clearly a spirited old woman, sharp-eyed and keen-eared, with fewer wrinkles on her round face than others her age.
She started smoking when she was young, and smoked all the way until the day she fell.
In that closed, conservative countryside, women smoking was extremely rare.
I once asked mom how grandma started smoking.
Mom thought for a moment and couldn't say.
All I remember is that from the time I could remember, grandma smoked.
Sometimes before cooking after working in the fields, she’d sit at the door of the main hall to rest, light a cigarette.
Back then, life was poor, couldn't afford cigarette rolls, so grandma rolled her own with tobacco leaves.
Probably, life was just too hard.
Smoking was a breath of relief, a bit of strength to keep going after a breath.
Grandma was about ten years old when she took on the family.
Her father died early, leaving three daughters and their mother to depend on each other.
Grandma’s mother didn’t have a son, and among the three daughters, grandma was the youngest, but also the most capable of handling things.
Without a male laborer at home, there was no income.
Her mother led the daughters to pick tea, do laundry, weave cloth, earning a meager living, barely making ends meet.
Grandma, the youngest, had to stretch that pitiful income to carefully manage the family's food, drink, and daily needs.
At an age when other children were still acting spoiled, she was already holding up a household.
Later, the eldest sister got married, then the second sister did too.
A few years later, grandma and her mother moved to her father’s house after remarrying.
Her first husband was her uncle, her father’s brother.
After marrying in, she had two daughters, and her husband passed away.
The family was shattered again.
At that time, grandma had two infants, her mother who had married into the family, and her mother-in-law.
Two elders and two children, all relying on her alone.
Fortunately, by then, grandpa was of marriageable age.
Grandma remarried her younger brother-in-law, who later became my grandpa.
After forming the new family, she had four more children, two boys and two girls.
Including the two daughters left by her first husband, there were six biological children in total.
Later, her third uncle also came.
He wasn’t grandma’s biological son.
His parents were both working teachers, with no one to help raise him, so they sent him to grandma’s care, paying a small monthly allowance.
When he arrived at grandma’s house, grandma and grandpa treated him better than their own children.
When he reached school age, his biological parents wanted to bring him back.
But every time grandpa took him to his biological parents, he would turn around and run back home—back to grandma’s house.
This delay in going to school lasted until he was about ten.
Only then did he start formal schooling.
Grandma had many children, and after they grew up, they had their own families.
The children of my two uncles were naturally raised by grandma and grandpa.
My aunts’ older brothers and sisters, and I and my brother, also took turns staying at grandma’s house when we were young.
The oldest daughter of my eldest aunt and the youngest daughter of my second aunt were less than a year apart.
My eldest aunt was the oldest, and my youngest aunt was the youngest girl, over twenty years apart—decades of time.
Having many children meant many worries.
When I was in high school, my eldest uncle had an accident.
A coal mine’s tower collapsed at his work, trapping him underground, and he couldn’t come out.
Grandma aged many years overnight.
At that time, my eldest uncle’s two sons were still minors, and his wife wasn’t very clear-headed.
Raising the two cousins fell almost entirely on grandma’s shoulders.
She should have been enjoying her retirement, but once again, she bore burdens that shouldn’t have been hers.
Later, I grew older and moved farther away.
My eldest uncle passed away, and the two cousins gradually grew up.
My younger uncle and his wife had been working away from home since their children were born, leaving grandma, grandpa, and a few grandchildren at home.
Every time I visited, I’d buy her a good cigarette and give her a few hundred yuan in pocket money.
Among all her nieces and nephews, grandma liked me and my brother the most.
Not because we were obedient and well-behaved—quite the opposite.
We were always a bit wild.
She liked us because we read well.
In the eyes of rural folks, good reading meant a future of passing college entrance exams, moving to the city, and making a name for ourselves.
Whenever we went back, grandma would definitely host a gathering, calling all close relatives, going shopping for good ingredients, and preparing a feast.
That scene was like a festival.
One year, I went back again, and grandma went all out as usual.
During the meal, my third aunt’s wife advised her, “You’re getting old, in the future, when the younger generation comes back, don’t fuss so much.”
Grandma smiled and said, “They’re grown now, working outside. The number of times they come back will only decrease.
I’m old, but I still get to eat a few more meals.”
Grandma’s fall happened that winter, just before the New Year.
Initially, my youngest aunt came back from out of town to take care of her.
At that time, grandma was still in good spirits, able to eat and sleep, and my aunt mainly cooked and looked after her daily needs.
But gradually, grandma started to forget people, and at night she’d talk to ghosts and spirits, even chatting with the deceased, frightening my aunt.
As her condition worsened, she lost control of her bowels and bladder, no longer calling for help, just doing it on the bed.
My aunt was overwhelmed with daily changing and cleaning, and eventually, she started limiting her water and food intake, feeding her and giving her water at scheduled times, and helping her go to the bathroom—at least to make things easier.
My aunt’s way wasn’t gentle, but after all, she was caring for an elderly person who had lost her ability to care for herself, with no helpers and no nursing knowledge—only the simplest methods.
Aunts who visited her at home would see her, though she no longer recognized them, mumbling that she was thirsty and hungry.
Mom was in Beijing helping my younger brother take care of his children and couldn’t come back.
Every time my youngest aunt sent videos of grandma gobbling down food, mom couldn’t help but cry.
After half a year like this, grandma passed away.
When she left, none of her children were by her side.
Mom said, “Your grandma’s last step really wasn’t worth it.”
I think, in her life, which step was truly easy?
Taking charge at ten, supporting the family.
Her husband died, she remarried with her daughter.
Sending a loved one to the grave, then raising her grandchildren.
Old and healthy, expecting to live a long life, she fell and never got up again.
Her life, it seems, never really had a moment that was truly worth it.