FQ chapter 68

Band-aids—he bought two kinds, waterproof and Yunnan Baiyao—along with a small bottle of iodine swabs. Fan Qing left them at the hotel front desk, then sat down on the lobby sofa.

The lobby was fairly empty; no one paid him any attention. He checked the time—it was nearly eleven.

He didn’t know how far Luan Ye and his mother had gotten in their talk.

They’d probably start from the last time they saw each other, move on to Bai Mingcheng, then Luan Ye’s illness, and the past few years… Luan Ye had always wavered about whether to see his mother again, but now that they’d met, Fan Qing could feel that Luan Ye was more glad than resistant.

What they lacked wasn’t affection—it was simply a chance to talk.

Fan Qing had never had that kind of conversation with his own mother. But if he had… what would he say?

Would he ask about the moment she left? …No, he probably wouldn’t.

Definitely not.

Thinking it over, he figured he might ask if, back in school, she really always copied Dad’s homework; if she’d been nervous on her wedding day; what she felt when he was first born… Then he’d tell her about his years of studying and living, and about Luan Ye.

He’d tell her that he was doing well, that Grandma and Aunt treated him kindly, that his studies were decent—probably inherited her brains. That he’d met someone he really loved, someone he wanted to spend his life with, like she and Dad once did.

That would be enough.

He no longer had the chance to share such things with his mother—but Luan Ye did, and that made him happy.

Still, he worried about how the talk was going, whether Luan Ye would come out in a bad state afterward… So even though Luan Ye had told him to go home first, Fan Qing decided to wait.

The hotel was high-end, service attentive. The receptionist even brought him a glass of water. He took a sip, then turned to look outside.

It was 11 p.m.; the street was nearly empty. Through the hotel’s glass doors, he saw an old woman sitting on the bank’s front steps across the street. She had a sheet of oil paper laid out in front of her with a small basket of fruit—too far to tell exactly what.

At this hour, there were few passersby. The occasional hurried pedestrian went by, but no one stopped to ask.

Watching her, Fan Qing thought of his grandmother.

Just a few days ago, when he called, she had just come back from the fields, saying the rice harvest was finished. After two more days of drying, she’d take it to the mill. New rice didn’t fetch a good price yet, so she planned to store it until trucks from other provinces came to buy.

Fan Qing liked hearing things like that. Even through the phone, he could almost smell the dry fragrance of rice under the sun. The sun in Yunnan had also been strong, but scorching and harsh—enough to peel your skin. Here, the heat was gentler, humid.

He watched a while, then left the hotel and crossed to the makeshift stall.

The old lady was selling green plums in a small red plastic basket. Fan Qing bought the whole basket. She happily packed up, while he carried it back to the hotel.

The plums didn’t look the best, but when he wiped one clean and bit into it, it was sweet and sour.

Luan Ye would probably like them.

…..

“…After coming back from Xuehu Village, I went to America… then I came back.”

Luan Ye set down his empty cup on the table with a soft clink.

He had ultimately left out his suicide attempt, and hadn’t gone into detail about Bai Mingchuan’s later psychological manipulation. But everything else, he laid out for Luan Ping.

Even the shortened, understated version took a long while to tell.

Luan Ping didn’t speak throughout. Even after he finished, she stayed silent for a long time before asking: “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“When you were sick—no, even earlier, when Bai Mingcheng’s incident happened.” She fixed her gaze on him. “Why didn’t you call me?”

“Because of that argument. I said I wouldn’t care about you anymore—”

Luan Ping drew in a deep breath, suppressing her emotions. “Do you still hate me?”

“No,” Luan Ye answered immediately.

“I’ve never hated you.”

The words were firm. Afterward, he paused, choosing carefully.

“I always felt… it was the result of defying your choice.”

Luan Ping froze.

Luan Ye looked at her—there were already fine lines at the corners of her eyes. In the hotel’s soft light, she looked a little tired.

“The last time we saw each other, you already tried to persuade me. I didn’t listen. Everything that happened after… was the result of rejecting your choice.”

His throat bobbed. “So those consequences… I should carry them myself.”

After driving his mother away, how could he call her again, saying—Mom, I’m sick, come take care of me?

That would’ve been too unfair to her.

He wanted to laugh at himself, but the suppressed emotions stopped him. “When I thought I was right, I defied you and argued with you. Then when I failed, I’d come back asking you to help me… handle it. I’m nineteen, not nine.”

Maybe because he’d left home so young, he was used to solving things alone abroad. And he couldn’t bear to face his mother, bringing her only this kind of result.

“And I didn’t want anyone to see me like that… especially you.” Luan Ye smiled faintly. “Too pathetic—not like Luan Ping’s son.”

The kettle was boiling, but neither of them moved. Luan Ping stared at him, then finally asked:

“So you were sick all alone, out there?”

Her voice trembled. “You were—you were alone in America, in a hospital?”

Luan Ye tried to lighten the mood. “There were doctors and nurses.”

Luan Ping smacked him on the back hard enough to shut him up.

So much for Fan Qing saying she wouldn’t hit me, he thought, looking up. Under the light, his mother’s eyes were already red.

“You still know you’re my son?!” she choked out. “How did I end up with such a stupid child!”

Before he could answer, she snapped again: “Are you stupid?!”

“What were you even thinking! Don’t you know I’m your mother! Back then—”

Luan Ye lifted his eyes. Her chest was heaving as she tried to control her emotions, but her voice still shook.

“You should’ve come home! You should’ve come back to me!”

He still remembered the maple tree outside the hospital ward. When he was too sick to leave his bed, he would watch it from the window—its green leaves turning red, falling, sprouting again.

He would look at it and sometimes wonder: what should I do?

In the end, he took his medicine, endured treatment, photographed, fought himself, barely made it through, without seeking other possibilities.

But tonight, for the first time, he heard a different answer to those questions born of pain, confusion, and isolation.

“You should’ve come back to Mom—!”

No matter the time—any time of pain or helplessness—you should come back to Mom.

Luan Ye looked at his mother. Her makeup was still on, she was still in her suit, but she no longer looked like the strong, imposing woman she showed the world.

On the beige sofa, Luan Ping covered her face and trembled as she cried.

Across from her, Luan Ye quickly lowered his head, forcing back the sting in his eyes by clenching his jaw. He pulled a tissue from the coffee table, sat down beside her, folded it neatly and handed it over, half-wrapping an arm around her shoulders as he spoke softly: “Mom, it’s okay.”

In Luan Ye’s memory, Luan Ping had never cried before. From an outstanding teacher to stepping into business, she had built a small tea factory of just a dozen people into one with hundreds. She divorced her drifting husband and sent her son abroad. Through all those years, she had always been a strong, decisive woman.

But tonight, leaning on her son’s shoulder, she cried for over ten minutes, sobbing until she was out of breath. By the time she stopped, she had used up all the tissues in her hand and her eyes were swollen red.

Only when her emotions finally settled did Luan Ye let go and pour her a cup of tea to calm her down.

Blowing her nose, Luan Ping tossed the tissue into the trash. Her voice was steadier now: “Are my eyes swollen?”

“A little,” Luan Ye said. “You might need a warm towel compress.”

He was about to fetch one from the bathroom when Luan Ping waved him off: “Don’t bother, I’ll do it later.”

So he sat back down. After sipping her tea, Luan Ping asked, “You won’t be going back to the U.S. anymore, right?”

“No.”

“Don’t go. And don’t keep contact with that family either.” Her tone left no room for negotiation. “Block every way of reaching you. If anything comes up, I’ll handle it.”

Even though Luan Ye hadn’t spelled out Bai Mingchuan’s behavior as a kind of mental control, after years of surviving in the business world, all Luan Ping needed was to hear about her son’s life and state over these years, piece things together, and she could already glimpse the truth.

Luan Ye smiled faintly.

“Are you still taking your medication? Do you need me to go with you for a check-up?”

“I stopped when I went to Xuehu Village,” Luan Ye said. “I’ll get a follow-up when I have time, don’t worry.”

Gradually, Luan Ping calmed. “Then go back to Hangzhou and rest for a while. Tomorrow I can wrap up work, the day after you’ll come with me.”

“The day after won’t work, I have to stop by Shanghai first for work,” Luan Ye explained. “It’ll be Mid-Autumn soon. I’ll go home with him then.”

“With him.”

Luan Ping caught the point. “You’re bringing Fan Qing home?”

“Is that okay?” Luan Ye kneaded his mother’s shoulder. “It’s the holiday. I can’t just leave the kid alone at school.”

She looked at him, a smile tugging at her lips. “You know he’s still young, and you haven’t known each other long…”

“Can’t help it—I like him,” Luan Ye said.

Seeing she was still watching him, he added, “Stopping the meds, deciding to come back, and even sitting here tonight talking with you… a lot of it is because of him.”

“…I understand.” Luan Ping finally smiled, patting the spot where she’d hit him earlier. “Bring him back. Let’s spend the holiday together.”

Luan Ye smiled and nodded. “Mm.”