by Ans Hooft
The sky came falling down. That’s how the Chinese say it when disaster strikes, and that’s exactly how it felt for me. My ayi just told me she’s returning to her hometown to care for her newborn grandchild. After twelve years of loyal service, I was not prepared for this.
In China, both local city dwellers and expats rely on an ayi, who makes life so much easier. Ayi literally means ‘auntie,’ but in practice she is so much more. She can be a cleaner, housekeeper, babysitter, cook, kitchen manager, living in full-time or dividing her hours part-time across several households.
They come from rural China to work in the cities, and like other migrant workers they leave their own children behind with grandparents. If they earn enough and don’t live too far away, they might be able to visit their families two or three times a year. They send money home in the hope of giving their children a better future.
According to a Jingkids survey in 2025, 80% of ayis work without a labor contract. Around 65% work part-time, often juggling multiple households. Of the full-timers, 25% live in, and they usually work far more than 40 hours a week. The pay isn’t bad: for part-timers it ranges from 40–60 RMB per hour. On a full schedule, that’s more than a skilled mechanic earns. They usually also receive a red envelope for Chinese New Year (like a 13th month’s salary), and expat employers always pay them during holidays. Chinese families can be a little stingier. I remember a discussion with a group of Chinese women who refused to pay their ayis during the months-long lockdown. “She’s not working, is she?” was the reasoning.
My ayi managed to keep six different households in perfect order. She was always cheerful, efficient, and clever. For twelve years she did everything I didn’t feel like doing, without taking a single sick day. Leak in the apartment? She’d call the repairman. Vacuum cleaner broken? She’d fix it. Me bedridden with illness? She’d cook soup. She’d scold me for being too thin, and nag me that my Chinese still wasn’t good enough. She knew exactly whose socks were whose and where they belonged. She knew that in this house lives a perfectionist who wants his shirts arranged by color on identical hangers.
It is completely in line with Chinese traditions and expectations that she will now take care of her grandchild. The Chinese retire relatively early. Until recently, women retired at 50 or 55, depending on their sector. (As of this year, however, the retirement age will gradually increase to 58 for women and 63 for men.) This allows grandparents to take on childcare so that both parents can continue working full-time. According to the Shanghai Municipal Population and Family Planning Commission, as many as 90% of young children in Shanghai were cared for by a grandparent in 2013. When school lets out here, you only see grandmas and grandpas waiting outside.
My ayi has even arranged her own successor and comes to introduce her. The resemblance is uncanny; laughing out loud, they tell me they grew up in the same village in Anhui. I needn’t worry, everything is under control, they assure me. When the moment of farewell comes, we both cry rivers of tears. It will take some getting used to, with the look-alike replacement. But not just yet.
Ans Hooft has lived in Shanghai for 17 years. She is the author of the book “Lockdown in Shanghai.” https://www.boekenbestellen.nl/boek/lockdown-in-shanghai/62959 .
