English translation of the Chinese original. Original illustrations are retained, including text within images. Translation and web presentation: 7 October 2026.
How Do We Hold the Balance?
Three children, one will, three ideas of fairness
Mingyue Gao’s note: Chinese families often say parents must “hold the bowl level”—treat every child fairly. But when an estate is divided, what does that mean?
Three children. The eldest spent the most time with his parents, taking them to hospital and managing family affairs for over a decade. The second was the most successful, always their pride, but work kept her away. The youngest worried them most from childhood; now, after business failure and a broken marriage, he faced the greatest hardship.
If their father leaves twelve million yuan, is four million each fairest? Would recognising the eldest’s care by giving him more be fairer? Or is giving the struggling youngest more another form of fairness?
A will appears to divide property, but often touches what families find hardest to calculate: love, indebtedness, contribution, need, trust and responsibility. More dangerously, children may read inheritance shares as a ranking of love: more means more loved; less means less important. A poorly explained will may leave not only property but a question siblings dispute for decades: “Whom did Dad love most?”
This time I face not “How do we make a valid will?” but a harder question beyond law: when three children have different lives, does fairness still mean equality of shares?
Characters
Gu Bochuan — Father, deceased at seventy-two. After years in business, he leaves about twelve million yuan available for distribution.
Gu Xingyuan — Eldest son, forty-seven. An ordinary career; substantial responsibility for his parents’ care for over a decade.
Gu Zhiyao — Second child and daughter, forty-four. Successful and financially strongest; long a source of her father’s pride.
Gu Xingzhou — Youngest son, thirty-nine. Business failure, a broken marriage and a child to raise; the least financially secure.
Their mother — Still living. Since her husband’s death, she has avoided discussing the will.
Mingyue Gao — Gu Bochuan’s executor, entrusted with estate administration after his death.
Act I: An “Unequal” Will
Seventeen days after the death, the family sits together again in the living room. I open a brown envelope on the table: a notarised will and an unopened letter. Slowly, I read the arrangements. Of approximately twelve million yuan, Xingyuan receives three million, Zhiyao two million, and Xingzhou seven million. The seven million allocated for Xingzhou is placed in a testamentary trust, with his mother as trustee, for medical care, basic living costs, his child’s education and related purposes. The rules for benefits are as follows…
The room goes quiet.
Seconds later, Zhiyao speaks first. “Mr Gao, one simple question: is this fair?”
Instead of answering, I ask: “What would be fair to you?”
Without hesitation: “Twelve million, three children, four million each. Isn’t that simplest? That is holding the bowl level!”
Act II: Does Fair Mean Equal?
I offer no judgment and turn to the eldest. “Xingyuan?”
After a pause: “I never meant to fight over an inheritance. But I handled most of Dad’s hospital stays, Mum’s appointments, everything at home. Not for money. Still… if everyone ends up exactly the same, it can feel as though who was there all those years made no difference.”
Zhiyao responds immediately: “Should caring for parents earn wages? How much for a day, an overnight hospital stay, leaving a job to care for them? If we price everything, what is left of family love?”
I look at her. “You have a point.”
She is surprised.
“So here is our first problem. If equal shares mean fairness, what of the eldest’s years of care and sacrifice? But if we settle contributions precisely, does inheritance become a final accounting of filial devotion? Companionship, care, sacrifice and time have value. Can they all become a number?”
No one answers.
Act III: Should Greater Need Mean a Larger Share?
I turn to Xingzhou. “Your father left seven million for you. Do you think that is fair?”
He looks down. “I don’t know. I know they must resent it. But I really am struggling most. My brother owns a home; my sister has a good career. For them, it may mean slightly more or fewer assets. For me it’s different. I have a child and don’t even own our home. If Dad didn’t help me, who would?”
“So your principle is: whoever needs more should receive more?”
He looks up. “Shouldn’t they?”
“Let’s change the situation. One child works hard and lives prudently, owning a home and savings by forty. Another squanders money, repeatedly loses investments and avoids responsibility, reaching forty with nothing. When the parents die, must the second receive more because he now struggles? Is that necessarily fair?”
He has no answer.
“If hardship itself creates greater entitlement, does making a worse mess of your life mean you should receive more from your parents?”
He shakes his head. “That isn’t right either.”
I nod. “We now know three things. Equal shares are not necessarily fair. Contributions cannot simply be exchanged for inheritance. Need does not automatically create a right to more. So what is fairness?”
Act IV: If You Did Not Know Who You Would Become
I write “eldest”, “second” and “youngest” on three sheets, then turn them over. “Let’s try a thought experiment. The twentieth-century political philosopher John Rawls proposed a famous device in discussing social justice: the veil of ignorance.”
Zhiyao looks up.
“Strictly, Rawls addressed the justice of society’s basic institutions, not parental estate division. But we can borrow the experiment to step outside our positions. Imagine you have not yet been born and do not know which child you will become: the eldest, sacrificing time for care; the successful, independent second child, least often present; or the youngest, battered by life and most in need of family support.”
I push the face-down sheets towards them. “You do not know which you will draw. If you jointly designed an inheritance rule now, would you still insist that identical amounts must be fair?”
For the first time, silence lasts a long while.
Act V: What Is the Eldest’s Care Worth?
The eldest speaks first. “If I didn’t know who I was, I would still want the person who cared most to be recognised.”
I nod. “Of course. But must recognition mean more money?”
He says nothing.
I open the father’s letter and read: “The eldest has spent the most time with us. I know what he gave up. What I least want is to convert his devotion into money.”
I put it down. “Your father saw it. He knew who accompanied him to hospital, answered at midnight, adjusted work and life. He did not want a final number to tell you what those years were worth. If affection becomes a price, the accounts may balance while the relationship is damaged.”
Xingyuan lowers his head.
“A will can recognise care. It should not turn love into a wage sheet.”
Act VI: Is Success a Fault?
Zhiyao cannot hold back. “What about me? I gave Dad the least trouble. Education, work, family—I managed myself. Because I’m doing best, I receive least? Is being capable a fault?”
“No. That must be clear. Doing well should never be grounds for punishment. A notion of fairness where greater effort means receiving less, and greater ability means deserving less parental consideration, is not fair either.”
“Then why two million for me?”
I pick up the letter. One sentence reads: “I leave the least to my daughter not because I love her least, but because I worry least about her.”
She says nothing.
“Children can read shares as a ranking: seven million means most loved, three million second, two million least. But your father was asking a different question: who will be best able to face life without him? Your success should not be punished. Your independence also tells a father that, even without him, you can live well.”
Quietly: “But that kind of trust can hurt.”
I pause. “Yes. Understanding a decision does not make it painless.”
Act VII: Seven Million for the Youngest—Love or Indulgence?
She points to the will. “But he still gets seven million. Why?”
“We can borrow another Rawlsian idea: the difference principle. It does not demand identical outcomes. It asks whether permitted inequalities have sufficient justification, particularly whether they truly improve the position of those less advantaged.”
“So whoever is weaker gets more?”
I shake my head. “No. That is an easy misunderstanding. The difference principle is not a reward for failure; protection is not indulgence of irresponsibility. We must ask not only whether your brother struggles, but why, and what giving him more would do.”
I turn to Xingzhou. “Why didn’t your father give you seven million in cash outright?”
After silence: “Because he didn’t trust me.”
“Partly. More precisely, I think he did not want to keep loving you in the old way.”
He looks up. “You ran into trouble; he gave money. Failed; more money. Failed again; another rescue. If you received seven million and exhausted it in two or three years, would that help—or postpone the day you truly take responsibility?”
No one speaks.
“Your father distinguished between things: housing, medical care, your child’s education and basic living can be secured. But seven million will not become a cheque to spend at will. He wanted to give you more of a safety net, not more indulgence. They are different.”
Act VIII: Was Father Playing Favourites?
Their mother, silent until now, says: “Your father cried when he made this will.”
All three turn to her.
“He wasn’t most afraid you’d think the amounts too small. He feared you would read them as measures of his love.”
She looks at the eldest. “He felt most indebted to you.”
Then her daughter. “Most proud of you.”
Then the youngest. “But until he died, most worried about you.”
“He said: I cannot answer three completely different lives with the same answer.”
Silence returns.
Act IX: Back to the Three Sheets
I push them to the centre. “Three, two and seven million. Unequal, certainly. But can fairness be judged only by the result? One gave the most care; one is most independent; one most needs sustained support. Pretending those differences do not exist and writing four, four, four is readily understood fairness. It may not be all that fairness means.”
I write five sentences:
First, every child deserves equal respect.
Second, contributions should be recognised, but family affection cannot simply be priced.
Third, success must not become grounds for punishment.
Fourth, hardship may warrant greater protection, but protection must not become indulgence.
Fifth, shares may differ, but every difference should have reasons that withstand scrutiny.
They all look at the paper.
Act X: The Lawyer’s Closing Statement
Zhiyao asks: “After all that, is your conclusion that Dad’s will is fair?”
I pause, then answer calmly. “I cannot declare it absolutely fair for you. Perhaps no will can make every child feel perfectly treated. But it is a will that thought seriously about fairness. Your father did not reduce fairness to division. He saw the eldest’s care without pricing devotion; the daughter’s abilities without denying her worth because she succeeded; the youngest’s difficulties, offering protection without indulgence. Its real question is not who deserves more money, but what responsibilities a father continues to bear towards three different children after leaving them.”
I pause. “We speak of holding a bowl level. Pouring the same into every cup seems easiest. But lives are not three identical cups. One gives more to the family; another can travel far independently; another has fallen hardest and needs help up. The difficulty is not dividing money into thirds, but facing three different people without betraying anyone’s dignity. Law can define testamentary freedom, validity and the basic interests that must be reserved for vulnerable people. It can allow testamentary trusts to turn property into lasting care. It cannot answer how a father should love three different children. That is his final value judgment, not the law’s decision for him.”
“I increasingly believe a good will should leave reasons as well as clear arrangements. Property need not be equal; dignity should be. Shares may differ; differences should be explicable. Parents can help children differently, but no child should mistake a number for being less worthy of love.”
I glance at the face-down sheets. “Before birth, not knowing which child you will become, would you still say that only four million each can be fair?”
No one answers.
The camera slowly draws back.
Three face-down sheets remain at the centre of the table.
The Law Behind the Story
1. Statutory succession starts with generally equal shares, but law does not equate fairness with absolute equality
Article 1130 of the PRC Civil Code says heirs in the same order should generally receive equal shares. It then provides consideration for heirs with particular living difficulties who lack capacity to work; permits larger shares for those who bore the main support obligations or lived with the deceased; and smaller or no shares for those able and positioned to provide support but who failed to do so. Even statutory succession is not a mechanical division by headcount: Chinese law recognises equality, need, contribution and responsibility.
2. Testamentary succession first respects the testator’s autonomous decision
Article 1133 permits individuals lawfully to dispose of personal property by will, designate one or more statutory heirs, and leave property to organisations or people outside that class. It does not require equal division among children. A father can make different arrangements based on values, family relationships and individual circumstances. This reflects testamentary freedom: the property is first the testator’s, and genuine wishes deserve legal respect.
3. Concern about a child receiving too much at once need not mean only giving or withholding
Article 1133 also permits testamentary trusts. Modern planning need not mean simply that parents die and children immediately receive money. With lawful and appropriate design, a trust can arrange long-term management and use for living costs, healthcare, education, housing or distribution after conditions are met. For a child with limited independence, poor financial management or long-term care needs, the question is not merely whether to give more, but how to give in a way that truly helps. A testamentary trust can be a useful option.
In my view, numbers are never the hardest part of a will. People often ask: “I have three children—what division is fair?” Years in family law suggest no mathematical answer. Four, four, four million is one kind of fairness; three, two, seven is not inherently unfair.
The questions extend beyond amounts. Why this division? Have you recognised the person who cared, the one who can live independently and the one needing protection? Is more about favouritism or responsibility? Is less about disappointment or trust? Are you providing a safety net or enabling dependence? These are the difficult questions.
A mature will, I believe, has two levels:
First, the property arrangement: how I have decided to divide it.
Second, the explanation of values: why I decided this way.
Family conflict often arises less from the numbers than from their meaning. Children translate three, two and seven million into judgments about devotion, importance, parental pride, worthiness of love or need for protection. A good will should try to prevent those misreadings.
Questions Behind the Story
Rawls asks us temporarily to forget our abilities, wealth and position and design rules we would accept. Imagine you are unborn and do not know whether you will be this family’s main carer, its most successful independent child, or the one who falls most and needs help. Before the card is turned over, what will would you agree your parents should leave?
Perhaps holding the bowl level need not mean identical water in every cup. It means taking each person’s circumstances seriously, having defensible reasons for differences, and letting no final number deny a child’s worth. Property may be unequal. Dignity must be equal. Shares can differ. Love should not become a ranking.
