“Dad.”
Xie Yucheng walked into the living room and greeted the middle-aged man on the sofa in a flat voice.
The living room was small—only about a dozen square meters—and doubled as a dining area.
Xie Guoli sat on a light-gray fabric sofa. A pair of black-rimmed glasses rested on his high nose bridge; his sharp features were touched with a hint of age, a few white hairs at his brow lending him a weathered look.
Seeing his son return, he lifted his brows, set down the black thermos in his hand, and stood up, limping toward him.
“You’re back.”
Xie Yucheng answered with a brief “Mm,” his eyes lowered, his face expressionless.
There wasn’t much conversation between father and son. Ever since his ex-wife passed away, his son had been distant.
Xie Guoli gave his son a firm pat on the shoulder. The boy was already much taller than him. Looking up, he said, “Go wash up and rest. At noon, have Aunt Yang cook you something good.”
Yang Ying followed in, smiling without warmth. “Yes, Yucheng. Long-haul driving is exhausting. I’ll boil some hot water—go wash up and get some sleep. I’ll call you when the food’s ready.”
Xie Yucheng shot her a cold look, then nodded to his father and carried his bag into the room.
He had rushed back today because tomorrow was his mother’s death anniversary.
Maybe his father had already forgotten.
After all, less than three months after his mother died, Xie Guoli already had someone new by his side.
Yang Ying smiled awkwardly, unfazed by his coldness, and said to Xie Guoli, “You’ve been reading the paper too long—it’s bad for your eyes. Sit for a bit. I’ll have Shiqing buy a bottle of baijiu. I’ll cook a few good dishes later; you two can have a couple of drinks.”
Xie Guoli studied Yang Ying’s charming brows and eyes and nodded with satisfaction.
He liked her gentleness and sense.
Eight years ago, after his ex-wife passed away, he and Yang Ying were introduced to each other.
They never registered a marriage—just held a banquet and lived together.
They both knew what this arrangement was: each getting what they needed.
“Alright, I’ll listen to you. Thanks for the hard work,” Xie Guoli said with a mild smile.
Bathing at home was inconvenient, so Xie Yucheng took his clothes to the public bathhouse in the alley, enjoyed a thorough wash, and changed.
When he got back, he suddenly saw the chicken coop in the yard wide open. Only one little chick trembled inside, huddled in a corner.
By the well lay a shocking spread of bright red chicken blood.
His brow furrowed slightly; a bad feeling rose in his chest.
Just then, Yang Ying came out of the kitchen carrying a chicken scalded in boiling water, smiling as she said, “I’ll make braised chicken for lunch.”
The veins on the man’s forehead throbbed. He ground his teeth and cursed, “Who the hell told you to kill this chicken?”
Startled by his fierce gaze, Yang Ying steadied herself and raised her voice. “What’s with that tone? What’s wrong with killing a chicken?”
Xie Yucheng pressed his brow irritably.
The yard gate opened. Wen Shiqing skipped in, a bottle of baijiu in hand.
The next second, she saw the chicken in her mother’s hands.
That was… Ali?
Her breathing stalled. Her mouth fell slightly open; the smile froze on her face.
Then her grip went slack. The bottle slipped from her hand with a clatter, glass and liquor splashing everywhere.
“Mom… why, why…” Her voice was soft, filled with disbelief.
No one could understand how Wen Shiqing felt.
Controlled by a domineering mother since childhood, she had learned to hide her emotions and thoughts to keep Yang Ying from prying into her privacy.
Some people keep cats, some dogs, some birds—pets are humanity’s most loyal companions.
Ali was her best friend. She had cared for it for over two years. It was her child, the confidant that listened to her girlish secrets.
Most importantly—Xie Yucheng had given it to her on her birthday two years ago.
Back then, he had returned from a long haul and pulled out a palm-sized chick. “Found it on the roadside. Want it?”
He’d looked impatient, as if he’d toss it away if she said no.
Of course, Wen Shiqing took it happily.
She had unilaterally treated it as a birthday gift from him, cared for it devotedly, watched Ali grow day by day and hatch chicks of her own.
“Your brother finally came back. Kill the chicken so we can eat it for lunch,” Yang Ying said, displeasure flickering across her face. It was just a chicken.
Impatient, she urged, “This kid’s obsessed—fussing over a chicken every day. What do you raise chickens for if not to eat them? And you broke the liquor. Hurry up and buy another bottle. Your Uncle Xie will drink later.”
She went on and on, not noticing the light in her daughter’s eyes dimming bit by bit.
Wen Shiqing loved her mother.
Before age ten, most of her childhood memories were miserable.
Yang Ying had married Wen Shiqing’s biological father for love. His family was poor; after marriage he drank, was lazy, and beat his wife.
Young and beautiful, Yang Ying was often left bruised and battered. She could have abandoned her daughter and fled that poor, painful home.
But instead, she took this little burden with her, fled from Suzhou all the way north to Jicheng, and married Xie Guoli—a man with decent means but a crippled leg.
Yang Ying planned everything for her: schooling, dance lessons, pretty dresses, a comfortable upbringing without worries.
This year, Wen Shiqing failed the college entrance exam and didn’t get into university. Yang Ying eagerly began choosing a good match. She knew every family in the city—who had money and power, who was just for show.
Yang Ying once said, “A girl at eighteen is in full bloom. Use your youth and beauty to find a good family. In a couple of years, when you’re in your twenties and become an old maid, who will want you?”
She all but wanted to hang a price tag on Wen Shiqing—highest bidder wins.
Growing up under her mother’s expectations and force, Wen Shiqing treated Ali as her friend—her emotional outlet.
The only one who knew she secretly loved Xie Yucheng.
The girl glanced at the hen, its head drooping, long dead. Her voice choked and trembled.
“Mom, you shouldn’t have touched Ali. I raised it for two years…”
Before she could finish, Yang Ying waved her hand and snorted, “I’m your mother! Even if I wanted the flesh off your body, you’d have to cut it off for me! It’s just a chicken, and you’re getting uppity with me? You think I’m easy to bully because I don’t have a temper? I work hard cooking and washing for you, and this is the face I get…”
With Xie Yucheng home today, Yang Ying was already in a bad mood. Scolding her daughter now was a deliberate show—killing the chicken to warn the monkey—venting her own emotions for others to see.
Xie Yucheng saw tears brimming in the girl’s eyes, her lower lip clenched so hard it was nearly bitten bloody.
He was about to step forward when she, eyes red, stumbled back a few steps, shoved open the gate, and ran out.
That slender white figure was stubborn and grief-stricken.
Damn it.
Xie Yucheng frowned deeply, shot Yang Ying a dark look, and kicked the metal basin beside him in irritation.
Yang Ying only thought that the earlier scene had angered him, and even curled her lips in secret satisfaction.
The bedroom door slammed shut. Xie Yucheng lay back on the bed, lips pressed into a line.
One trip home and everything went to hell. He shouldn’t have come.
If tomorrow weren’t his mother’s death anniversary, he would never have returned.
He closed his eyes. The girl’s sorrowful face and stubborn back suddenly flashed through his mind.
“Brother, give the chick a name.”
“Get lost. Don’t bother me.”
“Bro, how about Ali? It’s a hen, and it’s cute and pretty—let’s call it Ali.”
“Whatever.”
“Oh.”