Chapter 3

Every anniversary before this, Jiang Qishen had been swamped. He’d just taken over the company; staying on his feet wasn’t easy. Yang Bufan understood. She used to travel with him, wait for him to carve out time to celebrate.
Looking back now, she’d been in her prime—should’ve been pushing hard. Instead she’d lost herself. The money wasn’t great. She’d been stuck in relationship limbo, searching, begging. Shameful. Pathetic.
She thought for a moment, then texted Yin Yao.
Yin Yao was a friend from Xinyun. No conflicts of interest. Different floors, but they often grabbed coffee or lunch together.
Yin Yao had taken a long leave recently. Yang Bufan had been busy. They hadn’t seen each other in a while. Her last message went unanswered. She was worried.
This one went unanswered too. Something must be wrong.
She opened the pinned group chat. Three people. The other two were childhood friends. Their last conversation was March of last year.
She typed a message, deleted it before sending. Opened Cui Tingxi’s Moments, scrolled through. It was good—at least someone was living the ambitious, brave life for her.
She wanted to say something. Her fingers hovered. The message never sent.
She didn’t know how to fix things with her best friends. Same way she didn’t know how to fix her own pathetic life.
Maybe nights made people emotional. Yang Bufan felt sad, a little fragile.
These years, the older she got, the fewer friends she had. A deep sense of loss. Sometimes, mid‑relationship, she’d wonder: how had she lived before this?
Why did love make her feel lonelier?
Her phone lit up.
Dad Xu Jianguo. Asked how she was doing. Said Mom’s stomach was bothering her. Wanted to come to Shenzhen the day after tomorrow for an endoscopy. Asked if she had time.
Yang Bufan called right away. What kind of discomfort? Dad reassured her—nothing serious. Mom had already had an endoscopy in Chenghai, came back clean. Just wanted a second opinion in Shenzhen.
Yang Bufan relaxed a little. Asked about home. They talked for half an hour before hanging up.
She’d always been closer to Dad. Easygoing, never angry, always cheerful, could talk to anyone. Mom was the typical silent matriarch—hardworking, unsmiling, strict, always managing things. She was a little afraid of her.
Not long after she hung up, the intercom chimed. “Welcome home.”
Jiang Qishen walked in with a gift bag. She’d said she didn’t like the bag, so today he’d bought jewelry. He set it down, turned to wash his hands, and saw her cleaning up a half‑eaten cake.
“I told you to wait.”
He’d stopped by the employee party, then come home hungry. It was barely past eight. The place was a mess.
Yang Bufan said, “I thought you’d be tied up.”
She kept cleaning. Dumped food waste into the disposal. *Whirr.* Turned to paste. Didn’t ask if he wanted anything. Dumped the steak in. *Whirr.* More paste. Didn’t care if he was still hungry.
She’d been off lately. He knew.
The old Yang Bufan was clingy, high‑maintenance, full of enthusiasm he didn’t get. Every holiday, big or small, had to be celebrated. Like a kid before a field trip. Birthdays, anniversaries—she’d start planning a month ahead. Candlelit dinners, romantic hotels, beach photos, trips abroad.
Today, Yang Bufan hadn’t asked. Hadn’t even waited.
Before, she’d have made a hundred‑item travel list. Today all that waited for him was cake that looked like vomit. It killed his appetite.
Yang Bufan had become independent, cool. Exactly what he’d wanted. He wasn’t as happy as he’d expected.
Probably still sulking about work.
That annoyed him. He didn’t get why she wouldn’t fight. The project was hers. The work was hers. Someone took it and she just watched. She was afraid of conflict, of friction. When things went wrong, she didn’t step up to solve problems and show what she could do. She just watched from the sidelines.
Work gave you value and dignity. He thought she should overcome her weakness, take the hard path. He wanted her to stand on her own, at least make department head. But she had to be strong herself, not always need pushing. Otherwise how would she earn respect?
She was like an ostrich, head in the sand, waiting for things to get better or worse on their own.
Say she wasn’t capable? She did good work. But it all stayed at execution. She never pushed forward. It made her seem passive, small‑minded, not leadership material.
Jiang Qishen said nothing. Went to shower. Half an hour later he came out. Yang Bufan was still on the couch, phone in hand, chocolate smeared around her mouth. Looked filthy.
Irritation coiled in his chest. He couldn’t take it. Pulled out a wipe, dragged her over, grip firm. Yang Bufan winced.
“I’ll have someone come check tomorrow.”
Yang Bufan touched her reddened mouth. “Check what?”
“See if there’s something radioactive in here. A few days and you look like this?”
“How do you eat without getting messy?”
“How old are you? Don’t you care?”
“Only you think I’m dirty. I never think you’re dirty.”
Jiang Qishen said nothing. Pushed her into the bathroom, tossed her a towel. His cleanliness standards were higher than most. Things he didn’t touch didn’t matter. Things he did had to be clean.
Then he saw an empty milk tea cup in the trash. Seven‑tenths sugar. He thought of Yang Bufan’s cavities. He was getting angry.
Yang Bufan understood. Jiang Qishen didn’t just think she was dirty. He thought she wasn’t smart enough, couldn’t adapt, didn’t try hard enough. In his eyes, she was a person made of flaws.
But she’d tried her best on a lot of things.
Drop a ball on a slope, let it roll. It’ll roll to the bottom. That slope was workplace inequality. The ball didn’t want to roll down, but could it fight gravity? Could she use her own ability to roll uphill, reach the top?
He thought she was passive because elites like him rolled on smooth roads. They couldn’t feel her resistance.
Yun Siyu messed up and he didn’t say a word. They’d laughed together at the victory party because they were on the same side. He’d protect her.
Yang Bufan? Right or wrong, she had to clean up other people’s messes, then got called passive, told her attitude was wrong. It was just because she was an ordinary nobody. He didn’t want to protect her.
When Yang Bufan came back to the bedroom, Jiang Qishen was on the sofa by the window, a small lamp on. The cityscape behind him made him look cold, distant. His profile was handsome, but there was something oppressive about it.
His expression was dark. Yang Bufan looked away. She wanted to ask if he could go sulk somewhere else, not sit there ruining her digestion.
Yang Bufan lay down comfortably, pulled the covers over her belly. She’d eaten too many carbs. Now she was carb‑dizzy, brain foggy. Time to wind down.
She had a trait: she adapted fast to non‑extreme situations. Didn’t hold grudges. Once she decided to forget, her mood settled right away.
“The gift?”
Jiang Qishen spoke suddenly. Yang Bufan knew he meant the expensive bag he’d brought back. Drowsily, she said, “It’s nice.”
What Yang Bufan really wanted was a trip with Jiang Qishen—an island, diving, sweet underwater couple photos. Didn’t need ten days, just three to five.
For the past two or three years, she’d asked him every year.
She’d even practiced the Frenzel maneuver, worked on her body, stayed in shape, waiting for that time that belonged just to them.
But Jiang Qishen was busy. No time. So busy that Yang Bufan went from anticipation to disappointment to exhaustion. All those feelings were long gone. Still no trip in sight.
She’d known for a while it wouldn’t happen.
Because he didn’t love her that much.
Yang Bufan learned expectation management from Jiang Qishen. Growing up was adjusting expectations. A few years ago, she’d have kept pushing for trips, pushing him to spend time with her. Now she was calm. Unmet needs, once spoken, just became a kind of quiet humiliation.
Thinking that, she fell asleep.
Jiang Qishen got up for a cold drink. Passing the gift bag, he stopped.
His phone screen was dim, but he could still see: two wax seals still intact on the packaging. Yang Bufan hadn’t opened it.
He didn’t know why, but he felt a little anxious. More absurd than anything. He didn’t dig into it. Just thought luxury brands using wax seals was like a scam. Made him feel the money was wasted.
—
The next day.
Yang Bufan got up early. Mom Yang Siqiong was coming to Shenzhen for the endoscopy. She left an hour and a half early. As soon as she stepped out, Mom texted: already at the hospital.
Yang Bufan rushed to HKU Hospital. At the entrance, she saw Yang Siqiong sitting straight on a stainless‑steel bench, plain clothes, hands on her knees. Her wrists were like iron stakes—dark, lean.
She wasn’t on her phone, wasn’t looking around. Sat ramrod straight. A huge white foam box at her feet. That old‑school, simple air set her apart from the busy or idle city people around her. The silence said: she didn’t belong here.
“Mom,” Yang Bufan strode over. “Didn’t you say eleven?”
Yang Siqiong patted the empty seat beside her, motioned for her daughter to sit. “Your second uncle left early, so we came early.”
Mom looked a little older. Eyes sunk into their sockets. Silver threads at her temples. Sunspots on her cheekbones. Her whole face spoke of hardship.
“Mom, after the checkup, want to get claypot porridge?”
“Mm.”
Yang Siqiong pulled a box of preserved fruit from her bag. Yang Bufan took it. Inside: preserved starfruit, green mango, wax apple, guava, drizzled with licorice syrup. A small box of plum powder. Bright colors, made your mouth water.
Her hometown, Wanmei Village, was a key fruit‑growing area. Common varieties were guava and wax apple. She’d loved them since she was little, especially starfruit and guava. When the season came, the house was always full of fruit.
Growing up, anything she’d glanced at—food, drinks—she’d eaten until she was sick of it. Even though her family wasn’t rich. These years in Shenzhen, her parents still treated her like a kid. Even coming for a checkup, they brought snacks.
Yang Bufan ate two pieces. Green mango, crisp. Guava, slightly sweet. Cool as snow, sweet as nectar. Delicious. But the preserved fruit’s sour‑bitter taste seemed to seep into her heart.
Her mom didn’t like visiting. Always quiet, a little stern. But she saw work, did it without complaint.
They still didn’t talk much. Yang Siqiong watched her daughter eat, watched her cheeks puff like a squirrel’s, the crisp chewing sounds cutting through the morning’s rush. Her expression softened. She pursed her lips, wanting to say something.
“This morning your dad slaughtered a sheep. Brought half for Xiao Jiang’s father.”
She nudged the huge white foam box with her foot.
Jiang Qishen and his father were like enemies. Completely different lifestyles. Jiang Qishen hated the smell of mutton. His father loved it. Over the years, he’d eaten plenty of mutton from Yang Bufan’s family.
“So heavy. Why not just mail it?”
Yang Bufan’s chewing slowed. She wanted to say: they’re rich, they can buy whatever mutton they want, why go through all this trouble? But how could she say something so heartless? Her mom did all this for her.
Yang Siqiong said nothing. Pulled out a large paper bag. Inside, several smaller bags. Snacks. Sticky rice sausage, crystal dumplings, candied salted egg yolks, crispy fried dumpling meat. Not done yet. From an insulated bag, she pulled out a bottle of iced bitter melon juice.
She handed Yang Bufan a food glove, silently. Gathered the plastic trash, neatly tucked it into her pants pocket.
Yang Bufan ate preserved starfruit, crystal dumplings piled on her lap. Her mom poured her a cup of lemon‑bitter melon juice to cool her down. Just watched quietly.
She hadn’t eaten anything she’d brought. Hadn’t had a drop of water. The crystal dumplings, starfruit, half a sheep—or maybe most of her life—were probably all for this daughter who never seemed to grow up.
She’d carried that heavy foam box here just to save on shipping. She was frugal. Farming was hard. She wouldn’t even buy a 25‑yuan boxed meal on the high‑speed rail. But this snack platter with a 45‑yuan price tag, she’d go out of her way to buy.
Sigh.
Yang Bufan had nothing to say.
If her mom and dad could be a little more selfish, a little colder, her guilt would be less. Her parents sacrificed silently, constantly. And she’d turned out like this.
For the endoscopy, Yang Siqiong couldn’t eat anything. She didn’t feel hungry. When her daughter was almost done eating, it was time.
Yang Bufan cleaned up, went to throw the trash. On her way back, she saw her mom’s gaze fall on the foam box. She bent, claw‑like hands gripped the bottom corners, gave a slight lift, easily hoisted a box twice her width. Veins bulged on the back of her hands. Her expression stayed calm.
Yang Bufan rushed over. Time to restore some filial dignity. After all, she was a head taller than her mom, worked out, swam, had the physical advantage.
She told her to put it down. Yang Siqiong saw she was serious and complied.
Yang Bufan stared at the foam box seriously. Squatted, hands on the bottom, pursed her lips, arms tensed. Mentally shouted. The box left the ground.
Then her mind went blank. Like a mountain in her hands. Every muscle in her body, even her sphincter, was straining. Couldn’t stop the decline. Her arms went weak, heavy, sinking. With a thud, the box hit the floor.
Her face flushed red.
Yang Siqiong gave her a silent look, took off her backpack and handed it over, then easily picked up the foam box, head high, headed for the third‑floor gastroenterology department.
“Your leverage was wrong.”
“Oh, okay.”
She added, “Sorry, Mom.”
Yang Bufan followed behind her mom, dejected and ashamed, like a tall, useless bodyguard.
They waited ten minutes in gastroenterology. Their number was called. The doctor wrote up a painless endoscopy. They paid and went to the endoscopy suite.
After Mom was wheeled in on the anesthesia bed, Yang Bufan sat on a stainless‑steel bench, ready to order a courier to deliver the mutton to Jiang’s father.
But she hadn’t checked her phone in two hours. A lot of work messages had come in. She set aside the mutton delivery, replied to work first.
HR Xiao Tian finished explaining the bonus process and calculation, then mentioned Yin Yao, who Yang Bufan got along with, also had a bonus this quarter.
Thinking Yin Yao still hadn’t replied, Yang Bufan casually asked if she’d been coming to work normally. Xiao Tian said yes.
Things got murky. If she was working normally, why wasn’t she replying?
Xiao Tian asked why she asked. Yang Bufan said Yin Yao had been quiet for days, didn’t know what was up. Xiao Tian was direct: Yin Yao had gone shopping with Yun Siyu over the weekend, posted on Moments, lots of colleagues liked it. Nothing wrong.
Yang Bufan laughed it off, said she’d been on leave and hadn’t checked her phone. But she’d already opened Yin Yao’s Moments, refreshed. The latest post was two months ago.
She’d blocked her.
Yang Bufan closed her phone.
She thought for a while. Saw a nurse wheel out her sleeping mom. Yang Bufan went over. Didn’t know why, but she felt so wronged her face twisted.
That was how adult friendships worked. No questions, no explanations. Gentlemen part without harsh words. Like in Anno Mitsumasa’s fairy tales, everything happened in silence.
She tried to calm down, didn’t notice Mom had woken. This lean, tough middle‑aged woman sat up, face tired, eyes asking what was wrong.
Yang Bufan came back to herself, quickly wiped her face. She didn’t cry in front of her parents much as an adult. Felt awkward. Said, “Something happened at work.”
She habitually told these little lies to her parents. Partly because she felt it wasn’t worth being sad or defeated over small things. Partly because she didn’t want them to worry.
Yang Siqiong asked, “What happened?”
But then she thought: she didn’t understand those things, couldn’t help. She gripped the bed rail, a little weak. Said, “You work at Xiao Jiang’s company. If something happens, ask him. He’ll know how to fix it.”
At the mention of Jiang Qishen, Yang Bufan went quiet. Wiped away tears, almost coldly calm.
Just then, her phone lit up. Incoming call: Jiang’s father.
Yang Bufan answered. The voice on the other end was loud, still imperious. “Xiao Yang, find time to come see me. Got something important to discuss.”