Yang Zhiyan paused for a moment before answering honestly.
“Grandma Qin, actually… I’ve met you before.”
The elderly woman looked puzzled. Such a polite young lady—if they’d met, surely she would have remembered.
Could she be trying to get close to someone in my family?
Yang Zhiyan quickly explained, “At Mufei Qipao. Some time ago, you commissioned my teacher to make you a qipao. I saw you from a distance and remember thinking what an elegant lady you were.”
Realization dawned on Grandma Qin’s face.
“Oh! So you’re the prized student Master Mu is always praising.”
Yang Zhiyan smiled sheepishly.
In truth, many longtime clients came because of her teacher’s reputation. But Master Mu was getting older and couldn’t handle as much work as before, so she often recommended Yang Zhiyan instead. It allowed the master to take it easier while giving her apprentice more opportunities to hone her craft.
Switching her umbrella to her left hand, Yang Zhiyan took out her phone, opened her WeChat QR code, and held it out.
“Grandma Qin, should I scan yours, or would you like to scan mine?”
“You scan mine,” Grandma Qin said with a smile. “Young people are faster.”
She held up her phone, already displaying her QR code with practiced ease. It was obvious she kept up with modern technology far better than most people her age.
Beep.
Friend request accepted.
Grandma Qin’s profile picture was a flower—Yang Zhiyan couldn’t tell whether it was a chrysanthemum or a sunflower. The photo was a little blurry, but its warm colors gave it a cozy feeling.
Her WeChat name was simply:
Grandma Qin.
Four straightforward characters. No flowery embellishments, no pretentiousness—just like the woman herself.
“Zhiyan,” Grandma Qin repeated softly, a smile curling her lips. “That’s a beautiful name. It suits you perfectly.”
Embarrassed by the compliment, Yang Zhiyan lowered her eyes, the tips of her ears turning red again.
“When would be convenient for you, Grandma Qin? I’m free anytime. I’ll work around your schedule.”
“Tomorrow afternoon,” Grandma Qin thought for a moment. “After three. I’ll be up from my afternoon nap by then. The weather should clear tomorrow, so it’ll be easier to look at the house.”
“All right.”
Yang Zhiyan walked Grandma Qin to the entrance of the residential complex.
Mounted on one of the stone pillars was a bronze plaque engraved with the words Binjiang Garden.
The main gate was made of black wrought iron decorated with intricate floral vines. Inside the security office, two uniformed guards sat side by side before a wall of blue-white surveillance monitors.
“Would you like to come in for a while?” Grandma Qin asked, pointing inside. “I’ve got tea and fruit. We can share the ones you helped me pick up.”
Yang Zhiyan smiled and shook her head.
“Not today, Grandma Qin. I still have to go back to the studio and work overtime. I’ll come visit another day.”
“You must come.”
Grandma Qin gently patted the back of her hand.
Her palm was dry and warm. Though her knuckles were a little stiff with age, the touch was incredibly gentle.
“I will,” Yang Zhiyan promised.
Grandma Qin turned and walked into the compound.
Her steps weren’t large, but her back remained perfectly straight.
She carried herself with remarkable grace. The setting sun stretched her shadow long behind her, swaying softly in the evening breeze.
Yang Zhiyan stood where she was, watching the elderly woman walk inside, greet the security guards, and hearing one of them immediately stand and respectfully address her as “Madam Qin.”
Then Grandma Qin disappeared behind a cluster of lush bamboo beside the main building.
Only after she was completely out of sight did Yang Zhiyan put away her phone, raise her umbrella, and turn back.
The smashed fruit still littered the pavement.
Juice from a split orange had pooled into a small patch of bright orange on the ground, where several ants busily scurried about carrying tiny morsels away.
The rain had stopped.
A crack opened in the clouds, allowing a thin beam of sunlight to spill onto the sidewalk before her.
It looked like a ribbon of golden silk stretching from her feet all the way to the end of the street.
Tomorrow afternoon. Three o’clock.
Maybe… this time, luck will finally be on my side.
At five in the afternoon, the studio’s west-facing windows were bathed in the slanting rays of the setting sun.
The light spilled across the glass and onto the worktable, tinting the half-finished moon-white qipao with a gentle orange glow.
Several sewing needles stuck in the pincushion glittered under the light like scattered diamonds.
The air carried the faint, distinctive scent of silk—fresh and subtle, reminiscent of grass after rain.
Yang Zhiyan set down her scissors and straightened her back.
Her neck ached.
She tilted her head, and her cervical spine cracked twice, the sounds unusually loud in the quiet room.
Rubbing the back of her neck, she walked to the window.
Outside, the city was slipping into evening.
Food delivery riders weaved through traffic, their bright yellow and blue delivery boxes standing out amid the gray stream of cars.
Her stomach growled.
Looking down at herself, she suddenly realized she’d eaten nothing more than a steamed bun and a cup of soy milk for lunch.
No wonder she was hungry.
She checked the time.
5:12 p.m.
If she went home now, her sister-in-law would definitely be sitting on the sofa, one hand resting on her pregnant belly while watching television.
The moment she walked in, she’d hear:
“Zhiyan, you’re back? What’s for dinner tonight?”
What she really meant was:
Go cook.
Ever since Yang Zhiyan could remember, the kitchen had always belonged to the women of the family.
Her mother cooked.
Yang Zhiyan cooked.
After her sister-in-law married into the family, she didn’t want to cook, so if Yang Zhiyan was home, Yang Zhiyan cooked. If she wasn’t, then their mother did.
Before graduating from university, she’d lived in the dorms and escaped those responsibilities.
But once she moved back home after graduation, the job naturally became hers.
You’re unmarried. You don’t live in staff housing. If you don’t cook, who will?
She had done it for three straight years.
Every day after work, she’d change her shoes, wash her hands, and head straight into the kitchen.
Wash vegetables.
Slice vegetables.
Cook.
Three dishes and a soup.
Sometimes four dishes and a soup.
When dinner was ready, the whole family sat down to eat.
Sometimes she was so exhausted that she didn’t even feel like lifting her chopsticks.
Her mother would ask, “Zhiyan, why aren’t you eating? Are you feeling unwell?”
She sounded concerned.
But it never went beyond words.
No one ever actually helped.
If Yang Zhiyan worked late and came home behind schedule, she’d be blamed for it.
And if she informed them ahead of time that she’d be working overtime and wouldn’t make it home for dinner…
They wouldn’t even save her a single leftover.
After everyone finished eating, she washed the dishes.
Only after everything was cleaned and she returned to her room, closing the door behind her, did she finally have a little time that belonged solely to herself.
Day after day.
She used to believe it was only natural.
We’re family. Someone has to do the work.
Her brother had a job.
Her sister-in-law was pregnant.
Her mother was getting older.
If she didn’t do it, who would?
But thinking about it now…
She had a job too.
Why should it always be her?
Every time she picked up the spatula…
Every time she crouched over the sink scrubbing dishes…
Every time she listened to her brother laughing loudly at the television in the living room while she stood alone in the smoky kitchen…
She felt envy.
She felt resentment.
Yet if she stopped doing it, the entire family would criticize her.
Today, Yang Zhiyan didn’t want to go home.
Why should she go back only to be treated like that?
She had a career.
She earned her own living.
Even if she owed her parents gratitude for raising her, repaying that debt didn’t have to mean sacrificing herself.
Besides…
She had been doing housework since she was seven years old.
Her university tuition had been paid through student loans.
Her living expenses had come from part-time jobs.
By now, whatever she owed them couldn’t possibly be that much.
If her mother knew what she was thinking, she’d probably call her rebellious.
She was twenty-five years old.
And only now was she beginning to rebel.
Isn’t that a little late?
Leaning against the window, Yang Zhiyan smiled faintly.
The sunlight illuminated half her face.
She suddenly remembered something Jiang Siya had once told her.
“If you don’t even love yourself, how can you expect anyone else to love you?”
They had been sophomores then.
That day, Yang Zhiyan had argued with her mother over the phone.
The reason was simple.
Her mother said studying fashion design was a waste of money.
She’d be better off finding a boyfriend early, getting married after graduation, and bringing home a generous bride price.
After hanging up, Yang Zhiyan had cried on the dormitory balcony for half an hour.
Jiang Siya climbed down from her bed, shuffled over in her slippers, handed her a tissue, and said those very words.
Back then…
She hadn’t understood.
Or perhaps she had understood, but simply couldn’t do it.
Now, after all these years…
She finally felt like she was beginning to understand.
Yang Zhiyan unlocked her phone and opened her chat with Jiang Siya.
The last message was from the previous week.
Siya had sent a selfie with the caption:
“Do you like my new manicure?”
Yang Zhiyan had replied simply:
“Looks great.”
She typed:
Siya, are you free tonight? Want to have dinner together?
Less than ten seconds after sending it, the typing indicator appeared.
Jiang Siya: Well, look who’s alive. The workaholic isn’t pulling overtime today?
Before Yang Zhiyan could reply, another message popped up.
Jiang Siya: Not going home to wait on that whole family of weirdos anymore?
Yang Zhiyan stared at the words “wait on” for two full seconds.
In the past, she would have thought the phrase was too harsh.
How could cooking for your family be called waiting on them?
But today…
For some reason…
She felt Jiang Siya was absolutely right.
All this time…
She really had been serving them.