Qiao Zhihai felt that given Mr. Wu's wealth, Qiao Zhicai should, at the very least, have given his older brothers tens of thousands of dollars each.
But no, he didn't part with a single cent, leaving him with no face at all.
He said sarcastically, "Just yesterday, Great-Uncle asked me if the youngest had given any New Year's money to the nephews and nieces in the family. What was I supposed to say? The youngest didn't give a dime. My sister has been so good to their family, wasn't it right to expect some money for the New Year? Yet, they gave absolutely nothing."
The faces of Old Man Qiao and Old Lady Qiao darkened even more.
Qiao Zhiyuan, after all, was an official. He didn't let his parents speak, but looked at Qiao Zhihai instead. Lately, he had been full of grievances, and he had not been very diligent with the vegetable greenhouse. The chores had been handled by his own third son and nephew. It seemed that Qiao Zhihai probably wouldn't work in the greenhouse next year.