The lifelong best friend still needed to be appeased, after all.
Their relationship started in kindergarten—fighting from the very first meeting. They just didn't click. They compared braids, compared hair clips, even compared who lost their baby teeth later. And yet, fate stuck them in the same class all through elementary and middle school.
If there was a moment when their relationship truly changed, it was probably when, one day, the bold confidence that once radiated from Qiuqiu simply vanished. Chai Xiaomi noticed that this annoying girl no longer bickered with her or picked fights.
Later, Chai Xiaomi found out that Qiuqiu's once blissful family had suddenly fallen apart.
A father who fell ill and passed away. A mother who remarried in haste. A stepfather with ill intentions. And Qiuqiu—devastated.
In the span of a single day, a former rival turned into a loyal friend.
A few days later, Chai Xiaomi let Qiuqiu pick a restaurant and went to apologize.
Over at Chai Xiaomi's home, Chai Mingde, taking advantage of his wife's business trip, did everything he could to minimize the time his daughter spent alone with Wu Li. Almost every day when Wu Li got home, Chai Mingde would drag him to the market, then cook together, handling ingredients and bustling around the kitchen.
At seven in the evening.
The dining table was eerily quiet.
Chai Mingde poured two glasses of cola and slid one over to the young man.
"Since Xiaomi started school, when her mom is away on business trips, it's just me here alone—not even anyone to talk to," he said, his voice heavy with melancholy, like a lonely old man. "Today Xiaomi went out to meet her friend, so to my surprise, it's just you eating with me. Come on, let's toast. My old war buddy invited me night fishing, so I'll need to leave soon—can't drink alcohol, so we'll use this instead."
Wu Li was silent for a moment, then raised his glass, clinked it, and took a sip of the dark brown liquid. "This sugar water tastes pretty good."
Hearing this, Chai Mingde froze.
A pang of bitterness rose in his chest. This poor kid had never even had cola before.
He realized he'd been far too biased toward him lately. Maybe it was because the way the boy looked at his daughter was just too intense. But then again—his daughter was adorable. Who wouldn't like her? If someone didn't see how special she was, they'd be the crazy ones!
With this thought, Chai Mingde's mood lightened.
"Try this squirrel-shaped mandarin fish I made, what do you think? It's my first attempt. This is a famous local dish—the process is complicated. First you score the fish in a crisscross pattern, coat it in flour, deep-fry it until..."
"Average," the young man said flatly, putting down his chopsticks. "Uncle, there's still one more fish in the kitchen, right? I've memorized the recipe. I'll make it tomorrow. Don't ruin the other fish."
Chai Mingde's introduction came to an abrupt halt.
The air went still.
His heart jolted.
Decades in the business world, he'd seen every trick: smooth talkers, flatterers, hypocrites. But for the first time, someone had said something so blunt to his face.
This kid lacked a bit of emotional intelligence.
Not pleasant to hear, but it was the truth.
After a second of shock, he actually smiled.
He suddenly remembered his younger self—slamming the table to curse out his boss, standing up for strangers, charging into situations knowing he'd lose. Back then, he never spoke a false word either.
When had he learned to force a smile, to be polite, to swallow the truth?
Only at home, with his family, could he be his real self.
Chai Mingde picked up his cola and took another gulp. The bubbles stung his nose, making his eyes feel hot.
"Go ahead and make it. I want to see what a young Miao boy can do with Suzhou-style cuisine. I've been cooking for over twenty years—surely I won't be bested by you." Then Chai Mingde remembered something and chuckled. "Oh, by the way, do you know how Xiaomi got her name?"
Wu Li paused mid-bite with his chopsticks, raising his eyes to look at him seriously. "How did she get her name?"
Chai Mingde perked up. "I still remember the day Xiaomi was born. She was wheeled out of the delivery room, all purplish-red, with a wrinkled little face, like some ugly monkey. But within two days, she turned fair and pale. She looked so clean and pure, like a little glutinous rice ball, so I joked we should call her Glutinous Rice. But then I thought—the character 'glutinous' has too many strokes. It would take her forever to write her name on tests. So I just settled on Xiaomi. My wife and I agreed immediately. Can you believe it? That impulsive."
"Later, as she grew up, she kept thinking her name was too rustic. She pestered me: 'Dad, why did you give me such a name?' So I had a brainstorm and told her, 'Papa Chai earns the rice, and Mama Mi cooks it—so you're the little treasure caught in between.' The little fool actually believed it! Hahaha."
"She never stopped to think—her mom can't cook at all."
Chai Mingde was getting excited, completely unaware that the young man across from him had lowered his eyes, seemingly staring into his bowl of rice, but the corner of his mouth had curled into a barely noticeable smile.
As he talked, Chai Mingde even fetched three large photo albums and spread them across the table. "I'm not bragging, but my daughter really looked like a little rice ball when she was little—white and delicate, chubby cheeks, big eyes. Everyone loved her! When she was four, she went to the TV station with her mom, and a director spotted her. He wanted to train her as a child star. But my wife and I disagreed. Kids should have a childhood to enjoy. Why should they work at such a young age? Without a happy childhood, no amount of money can buy it back."
He flipped through the pages, murmuring, "Look, this is her first birthday—she's wearing a little princess tutu, cute, right?"
"This one's from when she was three, feeding pigeons at the park. She tripped chasing them, cried, then got back up and kept chasing. Stubborn, that one."
"This is her at the school's Children's Day performance when she was five. She forgot the moves on stage, stood there blank for a while, then just bowed and walked off."
"And here—this is her learning to ride a bike at seven. She fell countless times, her knees covered in bruises, but she refused help. Don't let her crying and laziness fool you—once she sets her mind to something, she'll see it through..."
Chai Mingde was on a roll, turning each page, eager to share every story behind every photo.
Wu Li's gaze lingered on the album pages, watching intently and quietly.
Even he didn't notice that his usually cold and distant eyes had softened, shedding their usual detachment and rippling with layers of tenderness.
After rambling for a while, Chai Mingde's mouth went dry. He glanced over and noticed a faint redness creeping into the corners of the young man's eyes.
He slapped his forehead and silently scolded himself for being thoughtless.
He'd been so absorbed in showing off his daughter that he'd completely forgotten about Wu Li's background. Now, his actions were like rubbing salt into an open wound.
"Sorry, Xiao Wu, did I hit a sore spot? We should all look forward, not backward. Heroes don't ask where they come from. The past is past. Let's stop looking and eat instead."
He reached out to gather the albums.
"Wait." Wu Li pressed his hand down on them. "Can I please finish looking through all of them?"
Sadness?
There was no sadness in him at all.
He was clearly happy—happy that his wife had once been so tenderly cherished in the palm of someone’s hand, grateful that before meeting him, those years of her life had already been carefully safeguarded, gently cared for, and deeply loved.
But then, an indescribable fear crept into his heart.
He was afraid—afraid that the love he gave was still far from enough.
He regretted—regretted that he could not have met her sooner.
He felt remorse—remorse for having first approached her with such a venomous and arrogant demeanor.
In that moment, how frightened, how sorrowful, how helpless she must have been...
At the thought, his heart felt as if it were being torn apart, the pain wrenching and unbearable. A thin mist of tears welled up in his eyes, tinted with a faint red.
