In front of a traditional Chinese villa stood a large group of Ye family relatives. Gathered around the elderly lady in the front row—whom Cheng Yi had met previously at the hospital—the crowd buzzed with anticipation.
With a gentle smile, the old lady took Cheng Yi's hand and led her into the courtyard. The place exuded the essence of classical Chinese design—delicate paper-cut window patterns adorned the walls, bonsai pines sat perched on stone pedestals, and koi fish swam lazily in a serene pond. Every corner of the courtyard echoed the elegance of a traditional Lingnan garden. As they stepped into the main house, despite the absence of elaborate carvings or ornate paintings, the Ming and Qing dynasty-style rosewood furniture and landscape paintings on the walls transported Cheng Yi back to her childhood, to those days when she would dart through the narrow alleys of old brick-lined neighborhoods.
The elderly lady led her to the most prominent seat in the living room and gestured for her to sit down. Cheng Yi's heart skipped a beat—how could she sit there? That was a place reserved for the most respected family members. How could she, just a junior, even consider taking it? She immediately shook her head to refuse, but her soft-spoken voice was drowned out by the chorus of encouragement from the relatives, she had no choice but to comply.
"George said you've been ill lately. You've always been so delicate, and now you look even thinner. "
The grandmother's eyes were full of concern. She promptly called her daughters-in-law to prepare some nourishing soup. The house buzzed with people rushing to get the best ingredients. When Cheng Yi saw them pulling out medicinal herbs like cordyceps and deer antler from the cabinets, she was left speechless, silently cursing Old George for his loose tongue.
"Grandma, I'm much better now. Really, there's no need for all this."
Such a sweet and well-mannered child—she instantly won the old lady's affection even more.
"Jiawei, get the old ginseng from my room and make some chicken soup. Make sure you use a free-range hen, mind you."
The second son obediently set off to carry out the command, leaving Cheng Yi to wisely remain silent and keep a low profile.
She felt completely overwhelmed by all the attention.
Last time at the hospital, she'd already thought their treatment was extravagant enough—showering her with gifts of gold and jade as a token of goodwill. That had made sense for a first meeting. But now, it was far beyond what she could have imagined. If back then it was just a display of kindness for Ye George's sake, today, Cheng Yi could tell they genuinely liked her.
The elderly lady continued to chat with her, mostly about health and well-being. When they discovered a shared passion for food, the conversation took on an even livelier note, flowing naturally from dishes to recipes.
No one mentioned any sensitive topics, and she didn't bring them up either. It was as if those issues had never existed.
"That's Mum, right?"
"Yes."
"And who's that next to her?"
"Her husband."
Ye Mingzhe had steeled himself for the truth, but even then, hearing Ye George confirm it still left him reeling. His eyes widened as he turned to look at Ye George.
"Where is he now?"
Ye George led him to the lower right corner of the family altar, lit a stick of incense, and handed it to Ye Mingzhe. Holding the incense in his hands, Ye Mingzhe stared blankly at the memorial tablet for a long moment before bowing three times and placing the incense in the holder. He couldn't recognise many of the characters, but his mother's name was etched deeply in his memory. His uneven breathing betrayed his agitation, and when he finally spoke, his voice trembled with emotion.
"So… you're telling me… my dad's been dead this whole time?"
Before he could finish, a firm smack landed on his head. He rubbed the sore spot, glaring at the culprit—Ye George.
"I'm not dead yet!"
"I meant my biological father!"
No sooner had the words left his mouth than another punch landed, this time in his abdomen. The old man clearly hadn't lost his edge.
"You—"
"Can't you read?"
Ye Mingzhe took a closer look at the tablet. He managed to recognise the words "Passed away in August 1990." A wave of relief washed over him, and he let out a long breath.
"Don't worry, you're still my son."
But he couldn't resist getting the last word in.
"As long as I'm Mum's son, that's all that matters."
"You—"
The younger generation always surpasses the old.