Guiying settled back against the seat and let the motion of the car carry him as the city blurred past in streaks of concrete and light. The weight of the morning clung to him, but he didn't reach for it. Yilin's hand had been small and careful when she closed it around the money, and Song Rongquan had remained in his corner in that ironed shirt, watching his children eat without moving to join them. Guiying understood houses like that. He'd grown up in one where you learned early that you weren't the priority, and the lesson didn't come all at once. It sank in gradually, quiet and constant, until it felt like the air you breathed.
He had set his boundary years ago. No children until he could provide for them, and not only because of money. He knew what he could give right now, and what he couldn't, and he was still in the middle of building something from nothing. That had to come first.
