“Dad.” Xie Yucheng walked into the living room and addressed the middle-aged man on the sofa with a detached tone.
The living room was small, only about twelve or thirteen square meters, serving double duty as a dining area.
Xie Guoli sat on a light gray fabric sofa. He wore black-framed glasses on his high-bridged nose, his features sharp, with a few gray hairs at his forehead hinting at life’s weariness.
Seeing his son return, his eyebrows lifted slightly. He immediately set down the black thermos cup in his hand, stood up, and limped over.
“You’re back.”
Xie Yucheng merely grunted in response, his eyes downcast, his expression largely blank.
Conversation between father and son was sparse. Since his ex-wife’s passing, his son had maintained a cold demeanor toward him.
Xie Guoli gave his son’s shoulder a firm pat. The boy had already grown much taller than him. Looking up, he said:
“Go wash up and rest. I’ll have Aunt Yang make you a nice meal at noon.”
Yang Ying followed in, her smile not reaching her eyes:
“Yes, Yucheng, long-distance hauling must be exhausting. I’ll boil a couple of kettles of hot water for you. Wash up and catch some sleep first. I’ll call you when the food is ready.”
Xie Yucheng shot Yang Ying a cold, piercing glare, then nodded briefly at his father before carrying his bag into his room.
He had rushed back today because tomorrow was the anniversary of his mother’s death.
Perhaps his father had already forgotten.
After all, it had been less than three months after his mother’s passing that Xie Guoli had someone new by his side.
Yang Ying responded to the awkwardness with a strained smile, brushing off Xie Yucheng’s coldness. She said to Xie Guoli:
“You’ve been reading the newspaper for too long; it’s bad for your eyes. Sit for a while. I’ll have Shi Qing buy some liquor. Later I’ll fry up a few good dishes, and you two can have a drink.”
Xie Guoli gazed at Yang Ying’s charming eyes and brows, nodding with satisfaction.
He liked her docility and understanding.
Eight years ago, after his ex-wife passed away, he and Yang Ying were introduced and came together.
They didn’t get a marriage certificate, only held a banquet and started living together.
In this marriage, both understood clearly—it was a matter of mutual convenience.
“Alright, as you say. Thank you for your trouble.” Xie Guoli smiled gently.
The bathroom at home wasn’t convenient for bathing, so Xie Yucheng took his clothes and went to the public bathhouse in the alley, where he enjoyed a thorough wash and changed into fresh clothes.
Returning home, he was suddenly met with the sight of the chicken coop in the yard wide open, with only one trembling chick huddled inside.
Beside the well, a shocking pool of bright red chicken blood stained the ground.
Xie Yucheng’s brow furrowed slightly, a sense of foreboding rising in his chest.
Just then, Yang Ying emerged from the kitchen holding a chicken that had been scalded in hot water, her face plastered with a smile:
“I’m making braised chicken for lunch.”
The man’s temple throbbed violently. Clenching his teeth, he cursed:
“Goddamn it, who told you to kill that chicken?”
Yang Ying was taken aback by his fierce gaze. Steadying herself, she raised her voice:
“Child, why are you so aggressive? What’s wrong with me killing a chicken?”
Xie Yucheng irritably pressed his fingers to his brow.
The courtyard gate creaked open as Wen Shiqing, holding a bottle of liquor, skipped inside.
The next moment, she saw the chicken in her mother’s hand.
That was… A Li?
Wen Shiqing’s breath caught for an instant, her mouth slightly agape, her smile freezing completely on her face.
Then, as if her hand lost all strength, the bottle of liquor slipped from her grasp with a sharp “crack,” shattering and splashing glass and alcohol everywhere.
“Mom, why… why did you…” Her voice was faint, laced with disbelief.
No one could understand Wen Shiqing’s feelings at this moment.
Since childhood, she had been controlled by her domineering mother. To prevent Yang Ying from prying into her privacy, she learned to become a girl who concealed her emotions and thoughts.
Some people keep cats, some keep dogs, some keep birds—these pets are humanity’s most loyal companions.
But A Li was her best friend, the child she had carefully nurtured for over two years, the confidant who listened to her girlish secrets.
Most importantly—this was what Xie Yucheng had given her on her birthday two years ago.
At that time, he had just returned from a long-distance trip and pulled out a chick small enough to fit in his palm from his pocket. “Found it by the roadside. Do you want it?”
His expression was so impatient that it seemed if she said no, he would immediately discard the little chick.
Wen Shiqing naturally accepted it with sheer delight.
She unilaterally considered this Xie Yucheng’s birthday gift to her. From then on, she cared for it meticulously, watching A Li grow day by day and eventually hatch chicks of its own.
“Your brother rarely comes back. Kill this chicken for lunch,” Yang Ying said with a flash of displeasure—it was just killing a chicken, after all.
She urged impatiently, “This child is bewitched, fussing over a chicken every day. Raising this chick was always meant for meat. Ah, the liquor’s spilled too. Hurry up and go buy another bottle. Uncle Xie will want to drink later.”
Yang Ying talked to herself, completely unaware that the light in her daughter’s eyes was gradually dimming.
Wen Shiqing loved her mother deeply. Most of her childhood memories before the age of ten were unpleasant.
Yang Ying had married Shi Qing’s biological father for love. Her father’s family was very poor, and after marriage, he became an alcoholic, lazy, and beat his wife.
Young and beautiful, Yang Ying was often bruised and battered. She could have abandoned her daughter and fled far from that impoverished, painful household to start anew alone.
But out of kindness, Yang Ying took her little burden and escaped all the way from their hometown in Suzhou to Ji City in the north. Through an introduction, she started a life with Xie Guoli. The two never registered their marriage—they came together for their respective children, sharing meals and supporting each other.
Yang Ying had planned everything for her: sending her to school, to dance classes, buying her pretty dresses, allowing her to grow up in a carefree, comfortable family.
This year, Shi Qing failed her college entrance exam and didn’t get into university. Yang Ying couldn’t wait to find her a good husband. She knew almost every boy in the city—which families had wealth and influence, which were merely empty shells—she understood it all clearly.
Yang Ying once said, “A girl at eighteen is a flower in bloom. You must use your youth and beauty to find a good family. Wait until you’re over twenty and become an old maid—see who will want you then.”
She practically wanted to hang a “for sale” sign on Wen Shiqing, going to the highest bidder.
Growing up under her mother’s expectations and forceful pressure, Wen Shiqing regarded A Li as her good friend—her emotional outlet, the only friend who knew about her secret crush on Xie Yucheng.
The girl glanced at the hen lying limp and lifeless, her voice choked and trembling,
“Mom, you shouldn’t have touched A Li. I raised her for two years…”
Before she could finish, Yang Ying waved her hand dismissively and snorted coldly.
“I’m your mother! Even if I demanded flesh from your body, you’d have to cut it off for me! Just over a chicken, you dare disrespect me like this. Everyone thinks I’m easy to bully, assuming I have no temper, is that it? Slaving away cooking and washing for you, yet I can’t even get a decent look from you…”
Yang Ying had been in a foul mood since Xie Yucheng returned today. Her scolding at her daughter was deliberate—”killing the chicken to warn the monkey”—aimed at others to vent her own frustrations.
Xie Yucheng saw the girl’s eyes brimming with tears, her lower lip clenched so tightly it nearly bled, the crimson stark against her pale skin.
He moved to step forward, but she retreated with red-rimmed eyes, pushing open the courtyard gate and darting away.
That frail, white-clad little figure was both stubborn and heartbroken.
Damn it.
Xie Yucheng’s brow furrowed deeply, his gaze dark and venomous as he shot Yang Ying a glare. Irritated, he kicked a nearby metal basin.
Yang Ying, mistaking his anger as a reaction to her “warning the monkey” display, curled her lips in secret satisfaction.
The bedroom door slammed shut with a heavy thud. Xie Yucheng threw himself onto the bed, lips pressed into a taut line.
Coming back only stirred up trouble—he never should have returned.
If not for tomorrow being his mother’s death anniversary, he would never have come back.
He closed his eyes, and suddenly, that sorrowful little face and stubborn silhouette flashed through his mind.
“Brother, give the chick a name.”
“Piss off, don’t bother me.”
“Brother, how about A Li? She’s a hen, cute and pretty. Let’s call her A Li.”
“Whatever.”
“Okay.”