Reborn in the Sixties: Abandoning the Cold Wealthy Family, I Return to the Countryside for a Counterattack - Reviews

Let me just say this: the dialogue in this book is so naturally funny that I laughed out loud multiple times and had to check if I was reading the right text. The whole Xu Yongze and Xu Zhitao dynamic is built on dialogue that sounds exactly like how an older brother and younger sister would actually talk. Not scripted. Not polished. Just... real. "Uncle, come quick! This is saved for you—the yellow peaches you like." That's it. That's the line. Three seconds of dialogue and you know these two have been sneaking snacks together for years. The canned peaches aren't just food—they're a love language. And Xu Yongze's response, pulling over a cloth and sitting down like he owns the place, tells you everything about his character without a single description. Then there's the provocation sequence that had me wheezing: "Hey, just tell me, am I amazing or not?" Xu Yongze, "…" "Amazing, you're absolutely amazing! Your mom is such a penny-pincher, yet you managed to squeeze so much out of her." The silence after "am I amazing or not?" is comedy gold. You can literally hear his internal screaming. And then she turns it around so smoothly—flattering him while also roasting his mom in the same breath. That's a kid who learned to navigate a dangerous household and came out with sharp tongue and sharper instincts. "Are you an adult? You're only three years older than me!" "Even if it's just three years older, Changlin is older than me, and he still has to call me uncle." This exchange is everything. It's petty. It's childish. It's perfect. Xu Yongze is three years older and already playing the authority card, and Xu Zhitao immediately calls him out on the absurdity. The fact that she then chases him from the west wing to the main gate and only manages to hit him once before tattling to Grandma is peak sibling energy. And the narration itself has this warm, slightly wry voice that matches the tone perfectly. When Xu Yongze is described as "so angry he laughed, picking up one child in each hand and running toward the house," you can see the scene. It's cinematic without being overwrought. The Old Lady's dialogue is different—measured, warm, carrying the weight of someone who's seen everything. But even she cracks when she says "You two, when you're apart, you miss each other, but when you're together, you cause trouble." That's not scolding. That's affection disguised as exasperation. What I love most is that no character sounds the same. The cousins have their own rhythms. Xu Yongze has his teasing cadence. Xu Zhitao shifts from childlike to surprisingly sharp depending on who she's talking to. The author isn't just writing dialogue—they're writing personalities.

Okay, so I need to talk about Zhang Zhaodi because this is the thing that's been haunting me since I finished this chapter. Like, she literally used to sleep beside Xu Zhitao every night. The kid thought she was her mom. And now? Polite smiles, distant words, like she's looking at a stranger. That's not just awkward—that's devastating when you're a child who just got dragged back to the only family she knew. But here's what actually got me: the Old Lady's explanation. Zhang Zhaodi lost a pregnancy at six months, and since then her mind hasn't been right. She's not cruel—she's broken. And Xu Zhitao, who literally died and came back as a ghost for five years, still says "she always gave me her treats, held me often." That's not naive. That's the kind of grace that comes from someone who has suffered enough to recognize suffering in others. The cousins are another whole thing. Changsheng, Changsong—they brought her wild berries like nothing happened. Just... remembered she liked them. And then when they left the room, their faces dropped. They knew something was wrong. They're protective without being asked. That's the kind of sibling energy you don't find everywhere. And Xu Yongze—three years older and already acting like a dad. The whole hair-ruffling, canned-fruit-sharing, "you're amazing" dynamic between them is so natural it made me want to yell at my screen. He's the uncle who's basically a cool older brother, and she's the niece who finally has someone to tease back. Their banter isn't forced. It's the kind of relationship that built itself over years of shared snacks and secret mountain trips. But the real relationship pivot is the Old Lady. She's impartial, busy, runs a whole family—but when Xu Zhitao hugs her arm and says "Grandma treats me the best," there's this moment where the matriarch softens in a way that feels earned. Not favoritism. Just... recognition. This child is carrying too much for ten years old, and Grandma sees it. The question that keeps spinning in my head: can Zhang Zhaodi remember again? Or is this permanent? And if she does remember, will she be able to face what she's done? Because that's the real conflict here—not the obvious Guo Hongying villainy, but the quieter, more complicated hurt of someone who loved you and then forgot you existed.

Can we just take a moment to appreciate how natural the dialogue is in this chapter? Because I'm genuinely impressed. The Old Lady's voice is instantly recognizable. 'Get out of here! I was part of the Niangzijun back in the day. Did you think I was like those people who cling to every penny they have?' This is a woman who doesn't mince words, who throws shoe soles as a form of communication, who can go from scolding her son to giving a profound speech about education in the same breath. Her dialogue has texture — it's sharp, warm, authoritative, and funny all at once. Xu Yongze's lines are perfect for his character too. 'Old Lady, you're even bolder than I am!' — this is the carefree, slightly irresponsible uncle who nonetheless has enough self-awareness to recognize when he's been outmatched. And his response to his mother's threat about splitting the household? Just spreading his hands and saying 'See? Did they really think the child was foolish?' He's amused, affectionate, and completely unfazed. This is someone who knows his place in the family hierarchy and is perfectly comfortable in it. But the dialogue that really got me was Taotao's interaction with Zhang Zhaodi. It's so simple: 'Second Aunt!' and then 'I want to go, I want to go! I'll go get the basket. Second Aunt, wait for me a moment.' There's nothing fancy here — just a child's genuine excitement, the kind that comes out in repetition and exclamation marks. And Zhang Zhaodi's response is equally understated: 'Taotao, I'm going up the mountain to dig for some wild vegetables. Do you want to come along?' No grand speech, no emotional declaration. Just an invitation. But coming from someone who hasn't sought Taotao out in who knows how long, it carries so much weight. The narrative voice is also worth discussing. It's omniscient but deeply anchored in Taotao's perspective, with moments where the narrator knows things Taotao doesn't (like the daughters-in-law's true motivations) and moments where we're limited to just her experience. This selective omniscience creates this wonderful sense of dramatic irony — we know more than Taotao, which makes her moments of naive joy even more poignant.

Okay so let me just say this out loud—Guo Hongying is the most exhaustingly mundane villain I have ever encountered. And that is somehow worse than any dramatic evil. She's not some scheming mastermind. She's not plotting world domination or secretly running a crime ring. She's just… a shitty person. She takes money, she abandons a child, she frames people, she lets her own daughter suffer, and then she casually gives Xu Zhitao some ration coupons before she leaves like she's doing her a favor. The banality of it made my skin crawl. "Guo Hongying was a contradictory person. One moment, she could destroy her own daughter for having no use, and the next, she could let her go simply because she knew her place and yielded." That line right there? That's the whole character in one sentence. She's not complex. She's not layered. She's just cruel when it suits her and generous when it costs her nothing. And Xu Zhitao knows this. She doesn't romanticize her. She doesn't try to understand her. She just… moves on. But what really got me is the contrast with the Xu family. The grandfather who throws a cloth shoe at his youngest son. The grandmother who immediately starts tidying up a room for a granddaughter she hasn't seen in five years. The brothers who pretend not to notice she's in pain because they're too afraid of what they might find. Xu Yongze, who had basically raised her, seeing her and immediately bursting into tears because she's so thin—that hit me like a truck. And then there's Zhang Zhaodi. Oh god, Zhang Zhaodi. The woman who lost her own child because of a fight with Guo Hongying, who had her uterus removed, who went mad with grief and kept trying to take Xu Zhitao, and then somehow… recovered? Completely? As if the trauma just vanished? That's not a character arc, that's a plot convenience dressed up as healing. The family dynamics here are genuinely compelling though. The way the brothers talk about Taotao behind her back, the way they protect her without her knowing, the way they're all walking on eggshells around the Zhang Zhaodi situation—it feels real. These are people who love each other but don't know how to show it except through food and silence and pretending everything is fine. I just wish the Guo family wasn't so cartoonishly awful. Even a cartoon villain has more personality than Old Mrs. Guo sitting at their doorstep with her paralyzed husband and crying children. It's like the author needed an obstacle and just… made one that exists solely to be annoying. But the Xu family? They're the real deal. And I'm here for them.

There's a symbol in this text that I keep coming back to, and it's the fabric. Over two thousand kilometers, Xu Zhitao's mother sent her... fabric. Not food. Not money. Not a letter. Fabric. And Xu Zhitao's first thought isn't anger. It's: "roughly twenty years later, when many factories couldn't pay wages, they would also use the fabric produced in the factories to offset salaries. It was exactly the same. The thought alone made me want to laugh." This is such a layered moment. On the surface, it's funny—her mom sent a mountain of useless cloth across the country. But underneath, it's about transactional love. Guo Hongying doesn't know how to give affection, so she gives things instead. Fabric. Goods. Material substitutes for emotional presence. And Xu Zhitao, who has spent five years as a ghost watching her mother from afar, recognizes the pattern immediately. She's been observing this woman's love language her entire spectral existence. The fabric becomes a metaphor for everything that's wrong and right about this family. It's excessive but harmless. It's practical but impersonal. It's what you send when you want to fulfill an obligation without actually showing up. But then Xu Zhitao reframes it: "She's finally being generous for once, so it's basically all free." She takes the cold transaction and turns it into a windfall. That's not just optimism—that's the mindset of someone who has learned to find value in neglect because the alternative is starvation. And the wild berries the cousins bring? Those are the opposite symbol. They cost nothing. They're not useful for anything practical. They're just... love. Remembered. Sought out. Brought by hand. The mountain itself is another symbol. Every time Xu Zhitao talks about going up the mountain—climbing trees, catching fish, picking mushrooms—she's talking about freedom. The mountain is where she was herself before the world broke her. It's where the cousins are still children. It's where ghosts can't follow because the living don't see what's already dead. "Having been a ghost for so many years... I could remember everything she read in books after just one glance. By that measure, I could be considered an intellectual. That was probably the only benefit of being a ghost." This line is devastating in its casualness. Being a ghost gave her knowledge but took away her life. She can read a book once and never forget it, but she can't sit in a classroom with other children. She's brilliant and alone, and the text treats this like a matter-of-fact observation rather than a tragedy. That's the narrative voice at its most powerful—understated grief that hits harder because it's not dressed up in melodrama.

I need to talk about Zhang Zhaodi because WOW. This woman appears out of nowhere and completely derails my emotional stability. Let me explain. For eight years of Taotao's childhood, Zhang Zhaodi was basically her second mother — the text literally says her significance was 'on par with Guo Hongying's, perhaps even greater.' And then what? She just... disappears from Taotao's life? And now, a week after Taotao returns, Zhang Zhaodi comes looking for HER.主动的. The initiative. And the description of Zhang Zhaodi's reaction when Taotao grabs her arm is absolutely devastating: 'she froze on the spot.' This woman is dazed, confused, feeling this urge to draw close that she can't even explain to herself. She doesn't remember this child clearly, but her body remembers. Her heart remembers. That's the kind of writing that makes you put the book down and just stare at the wall for five minutes. But let's also talk about the Old Lady because this woman is an absolute LEGEND. 'I was part of the Niangzijun back in the day. Did you think I was like those people who cling to every penny they have?' She's throwing shoe soles at her son, threatening to split the household, demanding respect for her granddaughter — this is a woman who has zero patience for nonsense and everyone around her knows it. Xu Yongze's reaction of just smiling helplessly and saying 'alright, alright' tells me everything I need to know about their relationship. She's the only person who can leave him at a loss, right alongside Taotao. Two generations of unstoppable women. And the daughters-in-law! Feng Cuilian, who married in when Xu Yongqing was ten and grew up with Taotao — that bond feels genuinely deep. Zhu Hehua, who envied Guo Hongying for having a daughter and now feels even closer because her son Changping joined the military through Xu Yongqing's connections. These women aren't villains. The text explicitly says 'none of them harbored ill intentions.' They're just... complicated. Real. Human. The first, second, and third branches being 'much more genuine' because they grew up with the child — that's such a specific, honest observation about how family relationships actually work.

This chapter is a masterclass in controlled pacing. Let me break down why it works so well. It opens with what could have been a boring exposition dump — school schedules, grade levels, family logistics — but the author immediately subverts that by filtering everything through Taotao's ghostly perspective. 'She had learned quite a bit during her years as a ghost.' Boom. Suddenly those mundane details about Changshun starting junior high become loaded with meaning because we know this character sees time differently. She's thinking in five-to-ten-year horizons while everyone else is worried about next week's groceries. The structure moves in three distinct waves. First wave: the family's educational planning and Taotao's strategic thinking about the future. This is the intellectual layer. Second wave: the emotional confrontation with the family's financial tensions — the daughters-in-law gossiping, the father sending money, the Old Lady drawing a line in the sand. This is the conflict layer. Third wave: Zhang Zhaodi's unexpected appearance and the quiet, almost fragile moment of connection at the end. This is the emotional payoff. What's brilliant is how the author uses the fabric-giving scene as a pivot point. Before that, the atmosphere is 'somewhat strange.' After Taotao distributes the cloth, 'the family had become much warmer toward her.' It's a small action with enormous narrative weight — one gesture shifts the entire emotional temperature of the household. The transition from the tense family discussion to the mountain scene is also perfectly timed. We've had enough conflict, enough weight, and then suddenly it's just a little girl and her second aunt walking up a mountain together. The pacing breathes. It lets us exhale. And that ending — 'As for Zhang Zhaodi, suddenly being affectionately linked arm in arm, she froze on the spot' — is such a perfect button to close on. No resolution, no big statement, just a moment of pure, unguarded human connection. The author trusts us to feel everything without spelling it out.

I am not okay. I am genuinely not okay with this book. Xu Zhitao comes home after five years—after dying, after becoming a ghost, after watching her own life from the outside—and the first thing her cousins do is bring her a bowl of wild berries. Just... berries. From the mountain. They remembered she loved them when she was little. That's it. That's the entire gesture and it completely destroyed me. "Did you miss your brothers?" Changsong asks, and she says "I did. I also missed going up the mountain with you, climbing trees, and stealing bird eggs." Five years of absence compressed into one sentence and I was wrecked. But then—then Zhang Zhaodi looks at her like she's a stranger. And Xu Zhitao goes home and can't sleep. She's tossing and turning over something the adults are also tossing and turning over, except she's ten years old and she doesn't have the vocabulary to process it. So she just lies there. What kills me most is that she still defends her. When the Old Lady explains what happened with the lost pregnancy, Xu Zhitao doesn't rage. She doesn't demand justice. She says "Of course I know. Second Aunt was good to me. She always gave me her treats." She holds onto the love because letting it go would mean losing the only mother figure she ever had twice. And then there's the scene with Xu Yongze. She's sitting on the floor surrounded by fabric bundles—over two thousand kilometers of fabric her mother sent instead of love—and instead of being bitter, she makes a joke. "She's finally being generous for once, so it's basically all free." She turns loss into laughter. That's not optimism—that's survival. The most emotionally raw moment though? When she asks the Old Lady, voice barely above a whisper: "Grandma, I want to ask... does Second Aunt hate me now?" She doesn't say "did I do something wrong." She doesn't blame herself. She asks if she's hated. There's a difference. And the Old Lady's answer—"It has nothing to do with you, a child. You were just caught up in it"—should have been enough. But it isn't. Because a ten-year-old doesn't need logic. She needs her aunt to look at her the way she used to. I need the mountain scenes. I need her climbing trees and stealing bird eggs and forgetting, even for a moment, that she's a ghost who came back to life. I need her to be a kid again.

Okay, let's talk about the conflict here because it's not what you think it is. On the surface, this is a revenge story waiting to happen. Guo Hongying sent her daughter back injured, abandoned her for five years, and now Xu Zhitao is home with a ghost's memories and a survivor's instincts. The stakes are clear: justice, retribution, making that woman pay. But the real conflict—the one that's actually keeping me up at night—is Zhang Zhaodi's amnesia. Because here's the thing: if Zhang Zhaodi had always been cold, Xu Zhitao could hate her and move on. Simple. But she wasn't. She was the one who held her, fed her treats, let her sleep beside her. And now she looks at Xu Zhitao like she's a stranger. That's not just hurtful—that's destabilizing. It means the love Xu Zhitao carried with her for five years, the love she protected as a ghost, was real but also reversible. Her aunt's love can disappear. Her family's warmth can be switched off like a light. And the Old Lady's explanation doesn't help. A lost pregnancy at six months, and Zhang Zhaodi's mind has never been the same since. So is this amnesia permanent? Will it come back? And if it does, will Zhang Zhaodi remember everything—including the years of neglect Xu Zhitao endured while she was away? The cousins know something is wrong. They saw Xu Zhitao's condition when she got off the train. They know she was wronged. But they can't find Guo Hongying to seek revenge. "Sighing, it was Changlin who remained the most composed. 'If she doesn't bring it up, we won't ask.'" This is a family holding its breath, waiting for Xu Zhitao to decide what kind of story this becomes. Meanwhile, Xu Zhitao is playing the long game. She's not lashing out. She's not demanding answers. She's eating canned peaches with her uncle, teasing her cousins, letting the family chaos wash over her. But she's also watching. She's a ghost who learned to observe for five years. She knows how to wait. The school conflict adds another layer. The Old Lady insists she go—not just for education, but for socialization. "At home, it's all boys—what good can you learn from them?" There's an unspoken fear here: if Xu Zhitao stays isolated in this house, she'll either implode or become someone the family can't recognize. She needs the world outside these walls, and the Old Lady knows it. But what are the actual stakes? If Xu Zhitao confronts Guo Hongying, she risks everything—the fragile peace she's found, the family's stability, her own emotional survival. If she stays silent, she betrays the ten-year-old girl who used to climb trees and steal bird eggs. There's no winning move. That's what makes this conflict so gripping—you're not sure which direction she'll choose, and you're terrified of both outcomes.

Okay so here's the thing that got me about this chapter — Xu Zhitao's entire motivation for going back to school isn't what you'd expect. She's not some wide-eyed kid dreaming of academia. She's literally a ghost who spent five or six years observing from the other side, and she knows exactly what's coming: the abolition of university entrance exams, the political purges, the reclassification of family backgrounds. Her plan is almost chillingly calculated. She's basically playing 4D chess with her family's future while everyone else is just... living their lives. The subplot about the cousins' education is fascinating too. Changsheng is the responsible one, Xu Yongze is the talented slacker, Changshun is starting junior high — it's like the author is laying out a whole generation arc right here. And the Old Lady's decision to let the boys drop out if they want to, while pushing Taotao to go to school, is a surprisingly progressive move for this setting. The family dynamics around money and education feel so real — that line about job positions being passed down from father to son, son to grandson, made me actually laugh because it's so brutally honest about how these systems work. What I love is how the plot threads are all connected. Taotao's return sets off a chain reaction: she brings gifts, the family warms up to her, the daughters-in-law start talking about making her clothes, and then Zhang Zhaodi actually seeks HER out. The narrative is building this web of relationships that feels organic, not forced. The chapter ends on this really sweet note with Zhang Zhaodi asking Taotao to dig wild vegetables together, and Taotao's internal reaction — that sudden sense of grievance mixed with joy — hit me like a truck. This kid has been starving for connection her whole life and here's someone finally reaching out. The plot isn't just moving forward, it's moving inward, into the emotional core of the story.

I need to talk about the telegram scene because I literally sat there staring at my phone like—wait, what just happened? Xu Zhitao sends one message and the entire Xu family loses their minds. Not in a dramatic way. In a quiet, devastating way. The grandfather picks up his tobacco pipe and just… sighs. The grandmother starts shooing everyone around to prepare a room. The brothers can't sit still. Xu Yongze gets angry because he's worried and doesn't know how else to express it. "She's my only granddaughter—how could I not recognize her?" That line broke me. Five years. Five years of no contact, no letters, no calls, and the grandfather's first thought isn't anger. It's worry. Is she okay? Did something happen to her? And then the train station scene. I'm not even going to lie—I cried. Not the pretty movie tears, the ugly sniffly crying where you can't stop and your nose runs and you feel stupid. Because Xu Yongze sees her and immediately notices she's thin. He counts the years on her face like he's been counting them himself. He calls her a "silly girl" and gestures at her like he's trying to measure her with his hands, comparing her to when she was smaller, and his nose tingles with emotion. "You've been in the big city for years—how come you haven't grown taller?" He's not really asking about her height. He's asking: who did this to you? Who let you suffer while I was here? And Xu Zhitao—this girl who has planned her entire revenge, who has steel in her eyes and fire in her heart—she just smiles and says "Uncle, I haven't hit my growth spurt yet." She lies to protect them from worrying. She lies because that's what she's always done. Pretend to be obedient. Pretend to be fine. Do more and eat less just to remain invisible. The ox cart ride home is where it really got me. She's lying in the middle of the cart, looking at the sky, and the brothers are walking beside her, talking about normal stuff, pretending everything is okay. Changshan offers her money he saved up for buns. She says she wants Grandma's noodles. And then she falls asleep. "Only Grandpa, Grandma, and the eldest and second brothers know about this, right?" The secrecy. The protection. The way they're all tiptoeing around the Zhang Zhaodi situation like it's a live bomb. And Xu Zhitao doesn't know any of this. She's just… happy to be home. The air feels sweet. The sky is blue. She's finally free. The emotional contrast between her internal peace and the family's internal panic is devastating. She thinks she's coming home to safety. They know she's walking into a minefield. And they're going to protect her anyway. That's the kind of family love that doesn't need words. It just needs action. And these people? They're all action.

Let me tell you about the stakes in this chapter, because they're deceptively high. On the surface, the conflict is simple: a family deciding whether their children should continue their education. But the underlying stakes are enormous. We're in a historical period where university entrance exams could be abolished overnight, where family background could make or break your future, where being poor peasants for eight generations is both a protection and a limitation. Taotao knows this better than anyone because she's already lived through it — or rather, she's already died and watched it happen. The external conflict is clear: the family's financial pressure, the daughters-in-law's gossip, the question of who gets to decide the children's futures. But the internal conflict is where this chapter really shines. Taotao is a ghost who has decided she wants to live again — not just physically, but emotionally. She wants to belong. She wants to be seen. And the moment she realizes that going to school means she can be the one to push her uncle toward his own future, that she can be the overseer with the little whip... that's when the stakes become personal. This isn't just about education anymore. It's about agency. The scene where the Old Lady threatens to split the household is the emotional climax of the chapter. 'If they really can't stand it, then let's split the household. I'll live with Taotao.' This is a grandmother drawing a line in the sand, and the fact that she says it in front of the child — 'wanting to hit him' for his bluntness — shows how seriously she takes this. The stakes aren't just about money or education; they're about who gets to protect this child. And then the chapter pivots to the quietest, most vulnerable moment: Zhang Zhaodi asking Taotao to come dig wild vegetables, and Taotao's internal monologue about how, for eight years, this woman's significance was 'on par with Guo Hongying's — perhaps even greater.' What does Taotao stand to lose here? More connection. More love. The chance that someone who was once her world might actually see her now. That's a stake any reader can feel in their bones.