Hearing the hesitation in Father Lu's words, Lu Zhankai didn't immediately argue. Instead, he sat down in front of his elderly parents.
"Dad, Mom, do you have some concerns in your hearts?"
"No, don't overthink it. Your parents—I mean, your birth parents—called us last week to ask when we'd arrive. They were extremely courteous."
Mother Lu rubbed her knees and glanced at Father Lu. "It's mainly that your dad and I are getting old, and our limbs aren't as nimble anymore. Besides, the livestock at home can't be left unattended."
Father Lu added, "That's right. Once your mother recovers her health, we can visit later. Oh, and make sure to keep an eye on the child during the trip."
"Once you're there, spend time with the elders and enjoy the New Year. Don't worry about your dad and me—there are plenty of folks in the residential compound."
"Exactly, exactly."
Mother Lu smiled. "Remember to pass on our greetings to everyone for us."
Listening to their deliberately lighthearted tone, Lu Zhankai felt his eyes grow moist.
He had been raised by these parents.
He knew their nature better than anyone.
It wasn’t that they didn’t want to visit the Capital City or meet his birth parents.
They were afraid their presence might make others uncomfortable.
And even more afraid of dampening his reunion with his birth parents.
After a pause, Lu Zhankai took their hands and spoke earnestly.
"Dad, Mom, no matter who my birth parents are, you will always be my parents. That will never change."
"I know, son."
Mother Lu patted his hand. "Alright, let’s not dwell on this. Old man, go fetch the things."
At her words, Father Lu stood and went into the inner room.
Soon, he returned carrying a bulging sack.
"Dad, Mom, there’s no need to bring so much. The Capital City has everything."
"What’s theirs is theirs. This is your dad’s and my heart’s intent."
Father Lu, usually stern, was uncharacteristically talkative today.
"This is your first visit to their home, and it’s the New Year—we can’t skimp on courtesy. Your mother and I prepared these. See if anything’s missing."
As he spoke, Father Lu opened the sack.
Inside, everything was carefully wrapped separately.
On top were dried fruits—dates, raisins, walnuts, and assorted preserves.
At the very bottom were oil-paper-wrapped packages of dried meat.
"This one’s yak meat, and the one next to it is lamb."
"Oh, and your mother packed some smoked horse meat and sausages separately. Not sure if they’ll be used to the taste."
Mother Lu sighed. "If only our yard were bigger, I’d have raised a few yaks."
"Let’s not push our luck," Father Lu muttered. "The army already lets us keep livestock. Raising yaks would be pushing it."
"I was just saying."
Though Mother Lu hadn’t been back to the mainland in years, she still read the papers daily.
She’d heard that even raising chickens and ducks was being restricted there now.
Unlike here—barren as it was—they never lacked for food.
Fruits, meat, eggs, and milk were all self-sufficient.
Suddenly, Mother Lu smacked her forehead. "Oh, I almost forgot! This morning, I traded for some camel milk powder. It’s unique to our region—take it back for them to nourish their health."
"And take this too."
When Mother Lu handed over a soft cloth bundle, Lu Zhankai assumed she was trying to slip him money.
"Mom, I can’t take this."
Since being promoted to battalion commander, his monthly salary was 101 yuan, with extra allowances for field training.
Combined with his wife’s earnings, their household income exceeded 150 yuan a month.
"This isn’t for you. It’s a gift for your grandparents."
She unfolded the cloth, revealing two pairs of gloves.
The outer layer was fine kid leather, lined with fluffy wool—exceptionally warm.
Lu Zhankai recognized them instantly.
The leather came from a hunt two years ago.
With many families sharing the spoils, each received only a small portion.
He’d kept two pieces, asking his mother to make gloves.
But she had never used them—until now.
"Mom, you should keep these for yourselves," Lu Zhankai said. "I’ll buy a few pairs in the city—"
"It’s not the same."
Mother Lu’s face glowed with pride. "This leather came from your own hunt. When the elders wear them, they’ll feel the warmth in their hearts."
Father Lu nodded. "Listen to your mother. Take them."
Before Lu Zhankai could protest, Mother Lu pulled out a stack of naan bread.
"I made these myself. Let your birth parents try them—they keep well and have more bite than plain flour cakes."
A child’s journey weighs heavy on a mother’s heart.
In just a short while, the already-stuffed sack was nearly overflowing.
When Mother Lu brought out another travel bag, Lu Zhankai quickly intervened.
"Mom, this is more than enough. Any more and it’ll be hard to carry."
Mostly, his parents’ love was simply too heavy to bear.
Mother Lu sighed. "No helping it." Then, after a pause, she added, "This bag is for your in-laws."
"My in-laws?"
Lu Zhankai frowned, clearly surprised.
Mother Lu nodded, glancing toward the house across the yard.
After some hesitation, she explained what had happened earlier.
"Your father-in-law called a few days ago. Seems he called again this afternoon."
"After Meng Yuan took the call, she wasn’t herself. Barely touched dinner."
"I think something’s troubling her. Ask her about it when you go back."
"Oh, and your meal’s still warm in the pot. Let me get it for you."
"Mom, I’ll go."
With that, Lu Zhankai strode to the kitchen.
When he quietly pushed open the bedroom door, Meng Yuan was indeed sitting on the bed, lost in thought.
So deep in contemplation that she didn’t notice him until he sat beside her.
"Xiao Yuan?"
She snapped out of it, forcing a faint smile. "When did you get back?"
"A while ago."
He set the food on the nightstand, then took her hand.
"Mom said your family called. Did something happen?"
He asked, though he already knew the answer.
When they called, it was never for anything but money.
Meng Yuan had been a volunteer in the Xinjiang support program, but she hadn’t come here out of youthful idealism.
She’d had no choice.
Her family situation was complicated. After her father’s death, her mother had remarried a factory worker, who also had three children.
With the addition of his parents, over ten people crammed into a tiny apartment no bigger than thirty square meters.
In a blended family full of strife, and with her mother’s passive nature, Meng Yuan had endured years of hardship under someone else’s roof.
Later, when her stepbrother needed money for a wedding dowry, her stepfather learned that the Xinjiang program offered a settlement allowance.
Without even discussing it with her, they signed her up.
Not a single penny of the 300-yuan settlement allowance was given to her.
In the first few years after she left, her family practically acted as if she didn’t exist.
No letters, no contact—nothing.
It was as if their daughter had died.
It wasn’t until later, during the political vetting for their marriage, that the Meng family learned their daughter had married an officer. Only then did they start reaching out sporadically.
But every time they contacted her, it almost always revolved around one thing: money.
No matter how absurd the reason, they’d come up with something—nothing was off-limits.
But Meng Yuan listened and treated it like nonsense.
As far as she was concerned, they could forget about money—she’d give them nothing but her life if they insisted.
So when the call came today, she didn’t think much of it.
Until her mother said over the phone—
“Said what?” Noticing Meng Yuan’s unusual demeanor, Lu Zhankai asked.
“They somehow found out that we’re going back to Capital City for the New Year… and that we’re visiting your birth parents’ side…”
Hearing this, Lu Zhankai frowned. “They’re well-informed.”
The reunion with his birth family hadn’t been widely publicized by the Lu family, and it was rarely brought up in conversation.
But in the military, phone operators could overhear calls.
Over time, it became an open secret among those in the know.
Still, he hadn’t expected the Meng family, all the way in Capital City, to catch wind of it.
But now wasn’t the time to dwell on that. Lu Zhankai pressed, “They didn’t call just to say that, did they?”
