The wheels of the suitcase rumbled across the living room tiles, the low rolling sound unnaturally loud in the stillness of the late night.
Yang Zhiyan wheeled it to the entryway and stood it upright. She had just reached for the telescoping handle when footsteps sounded behind her.
The soft slap of slippers against the tile came slowly down the hallway—not hurried, not slow, carrying an air of deliberate nonchalance.
“Yanyan, why are you packing your luggage so late?” her mother called from behind.
Yang Zhiyan didn’t turn around.
Her hand rested on the suitcase handle. Her thumb paused over the release button before pressing it. With a click, the handle slid back into place.
She never broke the flow of her movements. They were smooth, as though she’d done them countless times.
In truth, she had rehearsed this very scene over and over in her mind.
On the way home, she’d been thinking about what she would say tonight, how she would say it, and just how far she was willing to go.
Teacher Mu had once taught her that before doing something difficult, she should first walk through it in her mind. Think through every cut and every stitch. Then, when it came time to act, she wouldn’t panic.
She turned around.
Her mother stood at the entrance to the hallway, dressed in a faded pair of pajamas with a gray cardigan thrown over them.
Her hair was slightly messy, one side sticking up, and her gaze had already settled on the suitcase.
Her older brother and sister-in-law had gone to her sister-in-law’s parents’ house for dinner tonight, while her father was working the night shift. It was one of the rare evenings when her mother had the house to herself.
Her mother was a pitiful woman in many ways. There had been a time when Yang Zhiyan genuinely felt sorry for her.
People always said children from poor families grew up early. She certainly had.
She had matured long before her peers, believing that if she did a little more around the house, her mother would have to do a little less.
But eventually she realized the truth.
She helped her mother with the chores, while her mother helped her father and brother order her around.
Heartbreak was never something that happened overnight.
“I’m moving out,” Yang Zhiyan said simply.
Only the small nightlight by the entrance was on, leaving the rest of the living room in darkness.
The warm yellow glow stretched from behind her, casting her long, slender shadow across the hallway floor until it reached her mother’s feet.
Her mother stood at the end of that shadow. Her expression was difficult to make out, but the emotion in her voice wasn’t.
It wasn’t surprise.
It wasn’t sadness.
It was the instinctive rejection people had when faced with an unexpected situation.
“Moving out? What for?” Her mother stepped forward, pulling one hand from her cardigan pocket and waving it dismissively. “It’s not like there’s no room for you at home.”
Yang Zhiyan watched her mother walk toward her, watched her wave her hand as though it were nothing, watched the expression that plainly said This isn’t a big deal.
It struck her as almost laughable.
Just a few days ago, her sister-in-law had announced that her room would be given to her nephew.
Her mother had been sitting right there without saying a single word.
It wasn’t that she hadn’t heard.
She had.
She had simply chosen silence.
And silence meant agreement.
Just like when Yang Zhiyan had been bullied at school as a child and came home in tears.
Her mother had merely said, “Kids are just playing around. Don’t take it seriously.”
The same silence.
The same attempt to smooth things over.
The same attitude that it wasn’t a big deal.
As long as it wasn’t about her brother…
…it was never a big deal.
“There’s room for me?” Yang Zhiyan asked quietly. There was hurt in her voice, but no one had ever cared about her hurt, so she’d long since learned to bury it. “Wasn’t my room already given to my nephew?”
Her mother’s hand froze.
The motion-sensor light in the hallway went out.
Neither of them had moved or spoken, and darkness crept in from the corridor, swallowing half of her mother’s face.
Only the little nightlight by the entrance remained lit, illuminating Yang Zhiyan’s face and the suitcase standing perfectly upright behind her.
“Your sister-in-law was only joking,” her mother said softly, though the lack of conviction in her voice was unmistakable.
“Joking?”
“Mom… do you even believe that yourself?”
Her mother opened her mouth, then closed it again.
Her fingers fidgeted inside her cardigan pocket.
“But renting a place costs so much money,” she said, changing the subject.
It was her usual tactic.
Whenever she couldn’t win one argument, she’d immediately steer the conversation somewhere else—like practicing tai chi, always deflecting instead of confronting the issue head-on.
Yang Zhiyan had already anticipated this.
She leaned casually against the shoe cabinet by the entrance, both hands tucked into the pockets of her jeans.
Teacher Mu had told her that during negotiations, the more relaxed your posture looked, the more weight your words carried.
“You know how expensive housing is in the city,” she said, looking directly at her mother as she calmly laid out the numbers.
“The place I’m renting now is a shared apartment. My share of the rent is 4,500 yuan a month. With utilities and property management fees, it’s about 5,000 altogether.”
She deliberately emphasized the words shared apartment to make them sound more convincing.
She’d planned this on her way home.
If she claimed to be living alone, her family would inevitably ask which neighborhood, which building, which unit.
And if they ever showed up there making a scene, she wouldn’t be able to bear it.
But saying she had roommates was different.
A shared apartment meant other people lived there. Outsiders.
Her family would at least think twice before embarrassing themselves.
Her mother’s eyebrows knitted together, forming a shallow crease between them.
“That expensive? Did you get a raise?”
A raise.
Yang Zhiyan let out a silent, bitter laugh.
In her mother’s mind, her salary should naturally belong to the family.
Only the amount above her original salary could possibly be considered her own.
“Of course not.” Yang Zhiyan withdrew her hands from her pockets and folded her arms across her chest—a defensive posture, but also one that established distance. “Business hasn’t been good lately. I’m lucky my salary hasn’t been cut.”
Her mother’s frown deepened.
She walked two more steps to the sofa but didn’t sit down. One hand rested on the backrest, unconsciously tightening its grip.
“Then where did you get the money?”
There it is, Yang Zhiyan thought.
This was the question her mother had really wanted to ask all along.
Not Where are you living?
Not Are you eating well?
But Where is your money coming from? And after paying rent, will you still have any left to give the family?
“So,” Yang Zhiyan said steadily, her voice calm but resolute, “I won’t have any money to contribute to the household anymore. Besides, I won’t be living here. I won’t be using the water, electricity, property services, groceries, or anything else in this house. It wouldn’t make sense for me to keep paying for expenses I don’t use.”
When she finished, she met her mother’s eyes.
The living room remained dark except for the little nightlight by the entrance and the streetlights filtering through the windows.
The two light sources blended together, washing the room in a muted grayish-yellow glow.
Her mother stood in that dim light, the composure on her face beginning to crack.
Silence hung between them for several long seconds.
Then her mother spoke.
“How does that not make sense?” Her voice suddenly rose, as though she’d finally found an opening. She spoke more quickly now, growing increasingly agitated.
“Supporting your parents is only natural. That’s true no matter where you go. Ask your coworkers. Ask your friends. Whose children don’t give money to their family?”
Yang Zhiyan remained leaning against the shoe cabinet, perfectly still.
She watched the faint flush spreading across her mother’s cheeks as she spoke.
She watched the brightness in her mother’s eyes born of emotion.
She noticed the brown age spots that had gradually appeared on the back of her mother’s hands over the years.
This was her mother.
The woman who had given birth to her and raised her.
But she was also the woman who would always choose her son first.
“Then let your precious son support you,” Yang Zhiyan said.
Her tone wasn’t harsh.
It carried only a faint, smiling sarcasm.
Her mother’s mouth opened, then shut again.
Yang Zhiyan looked at the expression of someone left speechless.
She felt neither satisfaction…
…nor guilt.
“Fine,” her mother finally said.
Her voice had dropped considerably, and she spoke much more slowly, as though arriving at a difficult decision.
“You don’t have to contribute to the household anymore.”