Because both Yong’s and my income are unstable. Because he’s almost always on business trips, leaving us more apart than together. Because when he returns to our apartment at night, I’m engrossed in my Taobao live streams selling the latest fashion, while he dives into mobile games. Because our savings aren’t enough for a down payment on even a modest two-bedroom in the suburbs, despite our parents’ willingness to deplete their life savings to help us buy a home—a concept they insist on, opposing the idea of renting as a married couple. Because my mom (and his, too) bombards us daily on WeChat, asking when will you get married and firmly believing that a family isn’t complete without children, she’s bound to start nagging when will you give me a grandchild the moment we tie the knot. Because neither of us can cook, resorting to takeouts constantly. Because I don’t want to quit my job, and Yong’s income alone isn’t enough to support three. Because living with either of our mothers to help with childcare is out of the question. Moreover, because when his mom calls to press the issue, Yong furrows his brow, the phone at his ear turning into a hot potato as he tells her we’re not even ready to take care of ourselves, let alone a child, and I can’t hear his mom’s response, but he makes it clear, we’ll visit during the Mid-Autumn Festival only if this topic is off the table, because we don’t want to be forced into making such a significant decision, and because we’ve booked tickets for a cycling trip around Qinghai Lake during the National Day holiday, seeking the lake’s shifting blues, the caress of grassland winds, encounters with herds of yaks and Tibetan antelopes, and the vast, refreshing expanse of the plateau, eager to experience life’s grandeur at our own pace.