Chapter 62

Wen Nuan clung to her mother-in-law's arm, carrying in the other hand a bag of local delicacies brought from home. Although she had nagged Han Qian the entire way, when he reached out to take the load from her, she snatched it back and walked slowly, deliberately waiting for him to catch up.

As they reached the car, Wen Nuan handed the keys to the old man, catching him slightly by surprise. He frowned, recalling how stiff and pained his son had seemed getting out of the car, but he accepted the keys without question and climbed in. Han Qian settled into the passenger seat.

The old man drove cautiously, at a measured pace. After a while, Han Qian furrowed his brow and asked, "What made you two suddenly decide to come? Wen Nuan only said the bus was bringing some things over."

"What's this? You think I need your permission to come visit my own son? Who's the father here—me or you?" the old man shot back, his tone brusque and bristling with irritation. Han Qian merely pursed his lips and muttered, "You and I don't talk well, so let's not talk at all. Mom, did you bring some of those dumplings you made for Wen Nuan? I'm starving. Let me have a bite."

His mother laughed and lightly tapped him on the head, her voice gentle. "It's all for Wen Nuan—she loves things with filling, loves sticky textures. You're both so busy, no time to make dumplings yourselves, so I thought I'd have them brought on the bus. But then I worried you might not get them, so your father and I came along."

Han Qian shrugged, grimacing with a flash of pain. The old man's eyes narrowed, and he spat, "Useless." Han Qian's face darkened with fury. "Why am I useless? We just can't see eye to eye. So don't talk to me, and I won't talk to you. You've seen what kind of man I am. I won't be cooking tonight—so you'd better get in the kitchen."

"Hmph."

From the backseat, Wen Nuan clung to her mother-in-law's arm, making calls as she nestled in close, peeking curiously at the bag of treats. Her conversation was lazy, just murmured assent—she was clearly telling her office she wouldn't be in for a few days.

When she hung up, Han Qian asked his mother what she wanted to eat. She smiled and said simply, "We'll eat at home. I'll cook."

At those words, the old man's face went rigid. He and Han Qian exchanged a look, then sighed in unison. Wen Nuan piped up cheerfully, volunteering to cook, but both father and son said in perfect sync, "I'll do it!"

Memories of the burned hairtail incident loomed large—no one had forgotten. Wen Nuan, sheepish, began to sweet-talk her mother-in-law while dialing another number. "Hello? Director Wang, it's Wen Nuan. I want to bring my mother-in-law in for a full check-up tomorrow. Can you help me set it up? Thank you—I'll call you when I arrive."

As Han Qian directed the way to the Huangcheng Garden complex, the old man frowned and asked, "When did you move?" Wen Nuan's temper flared, and she muttered, "Dad, ask Han Qian! It's all his fault."

"He asked me, so of course I'll tell him," Han Qian said lightly, knowing full well that the old man had spotted the injuries he was hiding. If it were only that, the old man wouldn't lay a hand on him. But if he found out about the divorce—well, even if Han Qian were in a wheelchair, he'd get thrashed.

They entered the apartment in order of hierarchy—his mother first, then the old man, Wen Nuan, and finally Han Qian. The family dynamic was crystal clear. His mother, a bit carsick, hurried to the bathroom. Wen Nuan dropped her bag and followed her, solicitous to the point that it felt almost unnatural to Han Qian. Was she turning over a new leaf? She'd always gotten along with his mother, but since the divorce, she was downright sweet. And the sudden delivery of dumplings? Something was up.

The old man sat on the couch, surveying the small, tidy apartment. "A bit small, a bit cozy, but clean," he said softly. "A while back, Wen Nuan called your mother when she was sick, but you didn't come home. Come here, son. Let your father get close."

Han Qian, standing at the coffee table, backed away in alarm, holding up his hands. "I didn't know she was sick until I got home! I remember all the things you taught me when I got married: It's okay to quarrel with your wife, but never raise a hand. Once she marries you, she's left her family for yours—you can't let her feel wronged. A man's got a strong back—he should take on as much as he can, never be petty, always trust his wife. When she's sick, that's priority number one. The marriage comes second, work third."

He rattled off these words earnestly. In the bathroom, Wen Nuan's eyes widened in surprise. "Mom," she whispered, "has Dad really treated you that way all these years?"

His mother's face softened, a touch of contentment brightening her features. She nodded slowly, then added with a wry smile, "Probably even better than Han Qian treats you. In all our years of marriage, he's never once raised his voice to me."

Curious about her in-laws' story, Wen Nuan leaned against the sink and coaxed, "Tell me more, Mom."

His mother laughed. "Your father grew up dirt poor—never learned to read. I was one of three siblings, which was considered a small family back then. We weren't rich, but I made it to high school, which was rare in those days. When we married, he said he didn't have much education, didn't understand fancy words, but he knew one thing: he'd never let his wife regret marrying him."

Remembering those days, her face glowed with quiet pride, and even her carsickness seemed to fade. Wen Nuan, listening, felt a pang of envy. "Mom, just the other day Han Qian yelled at me."

Meanwhile, in the living room, Han Qian had perched himself on the farthest edge of the couch, inching away each time the old man moved closer, until he was standing altogether. He protested, half pleading, "What are you doing?"

The old man lunged forward, grabbing his arm and muttering, "Stop yelping."

Then, glancing around furtively, he slipped a small bundle of bills wrapped in a handkerchief into Han Qian's pocket. "I've been putting away a little money on the side—don't tell your mother. We don't spend much back home, and you send everything you make back to us. Even Wen Nuan sent your mother seventy thousand recently, said it was your earnings. You foolish boy—what do we need that much for? She's saving it for you. Take this—just a little pocket money from your old man."

"Mom! Dad's been hiding money from you!" Han Qian called out instantly, turning to the bathroom to tattle.

The old man's face turned red. "Forget it! You ungrateful brat."

He stormed off to the kitchen. Han Qian watched him go with a sly smile. "Yeah, yeah—small I may be, but you're big enough, right?"

That final jab was too much—grabbing a chair, the old man looked ready to swing it at his son. But at that moment, Han Qian's mother emerged from the bathroom. One look from her and the old man set the chair down and handed over the secret money. She passed it to Wen Nuan, who took it with a broad smile, no hesitation at all.

Two men in the kitchen, two women in the living room. The household fell into a comfortable hush.