Chapter 18: Home Visit
Ling Yicai led Xiahou Ming by the hand, pulling her forward.
Xiahou Ming drifted like a ghost, silent, letting herself be guided.
Relying on hazy memories, Ling Yicai navigated the rundown alleys to find Xiahou Ming’s home.
She hadn’t been here in ages—not since New Year’s Day.
In her memory, Xiahou Ming’s family, though poor, kept a tidy yard with her aunt’s vibrant impatiens.
But the sight before her made her doubt her recollection.
No impatiens graced the yard, only heaps of reeking garbage bags.
The walls peeled, exposing dark red bricks.
The wooden door’s paint flaked, the wood so rotted it seemed a push could topple it.
Is this really Xiao Ming’s home?
Hesitant, she glanced at Xiahou Ming, who showed no reaction.
Gathering her courage, Ling Yicai knocked.
Xiahou Ming’s mother opened the door.
She looked far older and wearier than Ling Yicai remembered—hair dry, eyes vacant.
Seeing Ling Yicai, she froze, then dredged up a memory.
“Is it… Xiao Cai?”
“Hello, Auntie.”
Ling Yicai smiled politely, but her heart sank.
Last time, her aunt could at least recall her name clearly.
“Hey, come in, come in!” Xiahou Ming’s mother beamed, pulling her inside. “Xiaoya, look who’s here! It’s Xiao Cai!”
Xiaoya?
Ling Yicai frowned, confused, glancing at Xiahou Ming, who offered no answer in her blank expression.
Then she saw the dining table.
Three or four pristine, empty white plates sat neatly arranged.
“Xiaoya, where’ve you been? Wash your hands! Xiao Cai’s here, time to eat!” her mother said cheerfully to Xiahou Ming.
Ling Yicai stood frozen.
Has Auntie… prepared a meal?
Instinctively, she offered, “Auntie, let me help clear the table!”
“We haven’t eaten yet!” her mother snapped, eyeing her oddly before pointing proudly at the empty plates. “Look, I made braised pork for Xiaoya. Sit, eat while it’s hot!”
Ling Yicai’s smile vanished.
She stared at the plates reflecting her stunned face, then at Xiahou Ming, who seemed unfazed.
Her worldview shattered.
“Xiao Ming…” She faltered, unsure what to say.
Xiahou Ming ignored her, carrying the afternoon’s groceries toward the kitchen.
“Let me help!” Ling Yicai hurried after. “I’ll cook!”
“No need—”
Before Xiahou Ming could finish, her mother grabbed Ling Yicai’s hand.
“Cook?” Hurt flashed across her face. “Xiao Cai, why cook? My food’s not to your taste?”
She pointed to the empty plates, eyes brimming with grievance.
“No, Auntie, I…” Ling Yicai panicked, unable to meet her earnest gaze or form words.
“If you don’t like braised pork,” her mother said kindly, “it’s fine. I’ll make sweet-and-sour pork tenderloin—you loved that as a kid, right?”
She started toward the kitchen.
“I’ll go,” Xiahou Ming said wearily, cutting through the absurdity.
She gently guided her mother back to the chair, forcing a smile. “Mom, Ling Yicai’s a guest. She wants to try my cooking. Sit and chat with her. Food’s coming soon.”
Ignoring Ling Yicai’s shock, she walked alone into the dim kitchen.
Ling Yicai stayed in the living room, alone with Xiahou Ming’s mother.
“Auntie…” she ventured, “who’s this Xiaoya you mentioned?”
“Xiaoya?” Her mother’s face lit up. “My daughter, Xiaoya. Look how good and sensible she is now, cooking for you, Xiao Cai.”
She pointed at the skirted figure in the kitchen.
“Not like him before, always disobedient, making me mad,” she said with disdain. “My Xiaoya’s the best… she’s back, finally back…”
She rambled—“She just went out,” “She promised to come back,” “Look, she’s back.”
Ling Yicai’s horror grew.
“I… I’ll check on her!” She fled to the kitchen.
Xiahou Ming chopped vegetables with practiced skill, her knife work too deft for a high schooler.
“Xiao Ming, Auntie…” Ling Yicai’s voice trembled.
“Don’t mind her,” Xiahou Ming said, eyes on the cutting board, knife steady. “Just go along with it.”
Her calm was chilling, as if this was routine.
Catching Ling Yicai’s uneasy, pitying look, Xiahou Ming felt a sharp pang.
She didn’t want pity.
She didn’t want Ling Yicai seeing this broken home, her delusional mother, or her own pathetic state.
But what could she do?
She focused on slicing tomatoes into even pieces, the mechanical motion hiding her urge to flee.
“You…” Ling Yicai watched her, a thousand words unsaid, settling on, “Let me wash the vegetables.”
She clumsily rinsed wilted greens in the sink.
Xiahou Ming fried tomatoes and eggs in silence.
It was their quietest, most harmonious moment since the store.
Dinner was surreal.
As Xiahou Ming’s mother ate real food, she babbled about “fantasy dishes.”
Suddenly, she looked at them and smiled. “Xiao Cai, you and our Xiao Ya are still so close. When her father was alive, we joked about arranging your marriage. You’re a perfect match.”
“Mom, that was ages ago,” Xiahou Ming sighed, pausing mid-bite. “Don’t take her seriously.”
But Ling Yicai froze, as if electrified.
The words fused her day’s shock, sympathy, and pity into a resolute sense of duty.
Protecting Xiahou Ming was her destiny.
After dinner, her mother retreated to watch her small black-and-white TV.
Ling Yicai followed Xiahou Ming to her cramped, dilapidated room—a bed, a desk, a peeling wardrobe.
They sat on the creaking bed in silence.
Xiahou Ming’s fingers brushed the game coins in her pocket, Yu Yuhui’s gift.
Her smile, her unsettling yet calming gaze, flickered in her mind.
She shook it off—Ling Yicai was here, she couldn’t dwell on it.
“It’s late. Should I walk you home?” Xiahou Ming broke the silence.
Ling Yicai stared at her haggard face, a childhood memory surfacing: Xiao Ming standing tall, shielding her from mocking kids, grinning, “No one touches you while I’m here.”
He’d been dazzling, brave.
She bit her lip.
She couldn’t let Xiao Ming fade in this broken room.
“Xiao Ming,” she said slowly, “tonight… I want to stay with you.”