Chapter 7

Two months later. Wanmei Village.
After coming home, Yang Bufan was like a wheat seed soaked in rooting solution, in the perfect environment to sprout. She felt incredibly comfortable.
Dad Xu Jianguo made her delicious food every day. Yesterday it was a one‑jin thick cut of conch, boiled in chicken broth, dipped in yellow mustard. Fresh and springy. Abalone, sea cucumber, shark fin, fish maw—all paled in comparison.
Today it was red, glossy red‑fermented‑bean‑curd braised pork, with conch tendon and olive soup. First a bite of jelly‑like pork, then a sip of clear soup. Her ears buzzed. Tears welled. Grateful beyond words.
Don’t plant your youth in the wrong field. Love can’t compare to good food. Rich or poor, when it came to eating, Chaoshan people had their own standards.
Of course, after praying to the Earth God and wishing for effortless gains, she still did the work.
She did extensive desk research on agricultural sites, checked national agricultural support policies, sorted out the difficulties and processes of raising sheep, set the framework and direction, then executed step by step.
Current situation: Before Spring Festival, prices were good. The family sold a batch of meat sheep. Now they had 1 purebred breeding ram, 68 fattening sheep, 85 ewes. Recently delivered 15 lambs. 13 ewes still pregnant. At this breeding rate, next year they could expand to 500.
The project’s advantages: Both parents were experienced. The sheep grazed by mountains and water, ate well, were all plump and strong.
The family had 3.5 mu of free pasture, 50 meters behind their two‑story house. Low cost, relatively easy to manage.
The village had lots of wasteland, lush vegetation. Good conditions for free‑range. Sheep digested grass easily. Just supplement with some feed to fatten. Lower cost.
The difficulties: This year had lots of rain. When the sheep couldn’t go out, they had to cut grass and stockpile feed. Not only did costs and workload double, heavy rain had damaged the old, unrepaired barn.
When it rained, the sheep pen’s soybean meal and sheep droppings mixed with rainwater. Sanitation was a concern. Couldn’t imagine what would happen in a typhoon—would the sheep get blown away?
So Yang Bufan planned: after this heavy rain, rebuild the barn immediately. Also repair the pasture fence. Contacted a few manufacturers. Labor and materials, based on her expansion needs, about 80,000 yuan.
On clear days, she went out to herd sheep. Wind and sun, 20,000 steps a day, tanned like Li Kui. Leizhou goats moved fast, like furry kids with ADHD. Never still.
The sheep were also crafty. Only listened to the one in charge. Would bully people.
When Dad coughed, they stopped chewing, opened their eyes wide, stood still like soldiers. When Yang Bufan shouted herself hoarse, they ambled along like they were deaf.
Sheep also scattered easily. One moment of inattention and they were gone, see you later. Often at seven or eight at night, still searching the hills for one lost sheep. If Yang Bufan hadn’t grown up wandering the woods, familiar with the terrain, she’d be stuck in the wilderness using a 230‑cm whip to scratch her 58‑cm confused head.
Of course, there were happy times too.
Every day there was time to lie on the grass, watch beautiful long clouds soft and fluffy against the blue sky. Warm wind in her ears. Soft little lambs piled on the grass at her feet. Made you want to grab one, hold it tight.
Walking into the deep woods in the morning, you could see wisps of mist drifting past. A breeze, sunlight filtering through rustling leaves. Like ten thousand eyes blinking.
Thick leaves underfoot revealed mushrooms, wood ear underneath. Dandelions flying everywhere. Big‑leaf banyans all over the hills. Sometimes Dad would bring a basket, pick wild vegetables, only the tenderest shoots. Blanched, mixed with fish sauce, Sichuan pepper oil, light soy. A flavor you couldn’t buy in markets.
Early summer. Duoni flowers bloomed deep in the woods. Pink and white. Wind passed, flower waves surged. Lambs wagged their tails, hopped up to reach. In autumn, duoni fruit ripened, purple‑black, soft, sweet and sour. Just thinking about it made Yang Bufan salivate.
Nature had a natural pull on primates. Yang Bufan admitted: this kind of freedom and relaxation could never be found in civilized luxury, steel and concrete.
Facing wilderness and mountains gave her a strange peace. Nature was really this restless era’s active cooler. A timeless fashion item.
Maybe over the past few years, she’d already grown tired of being a corporate drone. She didn’t have management talent, didn’t have core competitiveness. The job market was full of people like her. To stay in that position, to stay by Jiang Qishen’s side, she could only fight and retreat, constantly giving ground or falling in despair in those relationships that fried her back and forth.
Just doing that exhausted her. No energy left to negotiate, fight, strive upward. She failed. She was out of place. She knew. She was tired.
The thought of herding sheep arose. In that moment, the world opened up.
Coming home was actually much freer than expected. Being with her parents, life was slow. And there were real friends. Like Wen Junjie, one of her childhood friends.
Wen Junjie had come back the year before last. Now doing Nan’ao tourism. He came over to freeload meals every few days. They hadn’t seen each other in ages but weren’t awkward at all. After eating, they’d sit on the rooftop lounge chairs, chat in the breeze.
Wen Junjie was tactful. Never mentioned Cui Tingxi, never mentioned that old grudge. They got along great.
But an unmarried woman of the right age coming home always faced some vulgar peer scrutiny.
One morning, Yang Bufan rubbed her eyes, went to buy breakfast, ran into a high school classmate. After some small talk, the classmate laughed and teased: heard you were doing well in Shenzhen, boyfriend was rich. Why’d you come back suddenly?
When she came home, Yang Bufan had only told her parents she planned to develop at home long‑term. Didn’t say why. The closer you were, the harder some things were to say.
Yang Bufan carefully watched the classmate’s expression, knew what he wanted to hear. Said bluntly: broke up. No place to live. Couldn’t find work in Shenzhen. No money. Had to come home.
The other person immediately apologized, sent her a red envelope, insincerely comforted her not to be too sad. Said girls should find local boys. Men from outside were all bad.
Yang Bufan opened the red envelope. Wanted to apologize for her nonsense. But then thought: this 88 yuan was compensation for future reputation damage.
The world was hard. Some people’s reason to keep going was learning others were worse off. That little bit of superiority made them feel things weren’t so bad. What concern? Most were just watching the show.
Seeing the classmate’s satisfied, comforted look, Yang Bufan asked him to keep it secret, then left. Carried breakfast home. Could almost hear silent mockery behind her.
But within three days, this “secret” had been chewed over by many sets of teeth, finally meaningfully delivered to Yang Siqiong.
That day, under the big banyan near the old house—Wanmei Village’s intelligence center—the elders gathered as usual to drink tea and gossip.
Started with Russia‑Ukraine, moved to Israel‑Palestine, then the South China Sea. Ling Yi’s A‑Zhu got into college, wanted to throw a party. Village wouldn’t let them use the ancestral hall, said it was shameful. Fourth Uncle’s overseas relative from England came back to Tangshan, ate and took, even had parents pay for the ticket. Yang Laosan’s bachelor son ran off again, came back a girl… Everyone talking, spittle flying.
Yang Guangyou sat in the main seat, serving tea, also fighting for every inch verbally. Nearly seventy, long eyebrows like wings, lean cheeks, fast speech. Faded autumn shirt collar deformed and yellow. Indigo cloth around his waist.
He was the village’s big sheep farmer. Lived next to Yang Bufan’s family.
He kept old language habits, thick accent. Seeing Yang Siqiong pass by, called from far away: “Eaten yet?”
Yang Siqiong walked over, greeted him. Just sat down when another villager asked: “Heard Yangzi’s not going to Shenzhen?”
Yang Siqiong nodded. The person pressed: “Wasn’t the Shenzhen boyfriend going well? Not together anymore?”
Yang Siqiong said tersely: “The child has her own ideas.”
Yang Guangyou pursed his lips, said loudly: “Still going to Shenzhen? Got scammed so badly and still going? Outsiders have no conscience. Followed him so long, got nothing, got kicked out, no place to eat or sleep. Yangzi got a raw deal. So pitiful.”
Yang Siqiong’s back stiffened. She looked up sharply. The crowd buzzed.
Yang Guangyou was proud of his well‑informed status. Said, surprised, “You didn’t know? Yang Xingpeng’s family, that tall one, remember? Same class as Yangzi. He said. The outsider was unfaithful. Broke up, wouldn’t even let her work. I said it—don’t aim too high in love. Better to know someone well.”
Yang Siqiong felt like she’d been hit. Didn’t know how to react. Blood rushed to her head. She hadn’t imagined her daughter had gone through this, been publicly criticized, while she knew nothing.
And whether these words were true or false, she couldn’t tell. She couldn’t find anything to refute.
She wasn’t good at expressing herself. Now she was anxious and angry. Speechless.
Yang Guangyou turned to Yang Siqiong, smiled slightly, in a senior’s tone: “Isn’t Shenzhen called ‘Xianggang’? Lots of northerners. Chaotic. Not doing well is normal, right?”
Everyone’s gazes hit her like searchlights. Yang Siqiong nodded mechanically.
Yang Guangyou stretched, humble‑bragging, seeming dissatisfied but actually showing off, talked about his eldest grandson, same age as Yang Bufan: “Education not high enough, also a troublemaker. Not doing well in Shenzhen either. What future in game development? Works like crazy, only makes—”
Everyone’s eyes followed. Yang Guangyou “ai”‑ed, crossed his legs, extended his index finger bent into a 7. “700,000. Mortgage is high. Not in a hurry to get married.”
After that, he left time to receive everyone’s gasps and envious applause. Then, for the 108th time, smugly mentioned his more successful second son’s family—
Overseas relatives in America. Ran a chain of Chinese restaurants. Been on TV. When they came back, built bridges, paved roads, feasted the neighbors. That day there were flower arches, red carpets, bubble machines. Hired a Chaozhou opera troupe.
That was returning in glory. Ten miles of honor.
At the end, Yang Guangyou didn’t forget to purse his lips, sigh: “Golden neighbors, silver relatives. These troublemakers aren’t as good as neighbors. Not as good as you all.”
Yang Siqiong retreated dimly amid the applause. She hurried home. Had to find justice for her only daughter. And for herself.