Zhao Guangyuan suddenly thought of something and asked Su Lan, as well as Zhao Shuo, “Has Mingming really never gone back to the silk factory?”
Zhao Shuo said, “No. You both know—he doesn’t like Zhang Xiangping and the others.”
Zhao Guangyuan didn’t respond, and Su Lan stayed quiet too.
But the couple understood perfectly well: that “dislike” of Zhao Mingshi’s was really just his inability to accept the gap between his true background and the life he’d been living.
To put it bluntly, Zhao Mingshi looked down on Jiang Jianmin and Zhang Xiangping for being just ordinary silk-factory workers, for having no money, for living in one of those old dorm buildings where even the bathrooms were shared by the whole floor.
Zhao Guangyuan finally said, “It’s human nature to want something better.”
Su Lan nodded, and Zhao Shuo had nothing to add.
None of them blamed Zhao Mingshi for “disdaining poverty.” After all, they’d raised him for eighteen years. The feelings were real.
Their whole family still favored Zhao Mingshi.
But favoritism was one thing; understanding was another. Knowing that he looked down on his biological parents, Zhao Guangyuan and the others had their own opinions—they just never said them out loud.
Even Zhao Shuo, who adored his younger brother and didn’t care whether he went back or not, still felt that Zhao Mingshi was being a bit too calculating and heartless.
Even if they didn’t like Jiang Jianmin and Zhang Xiangping either.
After a silence, Zhao Guangyuan spoke again. “He’s their biological son. Just like we want Jiang Luo to come home, Mingming shouldn’t completely cut off contact with his birth parents.”
Su Lan, always partial toward Zhao Mingshi, said, “Give him time.”
Zhao Shuo added a soft “Yeah.”
But Zhao Guangyuan didn’t agree.
“Our family has never raised selfish, self-centered children,” he said.
“If Jiang Luo won’t come home, that’s on us—we did something wrong.”
“But what about Mingming? Why hasn’t he gone back even once? Is it because Zhang Xiangping did something wrong? Because they treated him badly?”
Then Zhao Guangyuan said plainly, “Mingming shouldn’t look down on his real parents. There’s an old saying for a reason: a son doesn’t despise his mother for being ugly, and a dog doesn’t despise its home for being poor. He’s a college student—his biological parents didn’t do anything wrong to him. He shouldn’t be this cold.”
Zhao Guangyuan continued, “When he comes home someday—or when I have time—I’m going to his school to talk to him.”
“A college student should have the right awareness and the right sense of responsibility.”
Jiang Luo wasn’t there. He didn’t hear any of this, didn’t know any of this.
If he had been, he would’ve laughed in their faces.
Awareness? Responsibility?
Zhao Mingshi had none.
In the previous life, all Zhao Mingshi knew how to do was calculate and act—acting so well that Jiang Jianmin and Zhang Xiangping ended up looking like terrible parents. That made Zhao Guangyuan and the others believe his refusal to visit or contact them was perfectly reasonable.
But who would’ve thought? In this life, because Jiang Luo ignored everyone and didn’t butt heads with Zhao Mingshi at all, Zhao Mingshi didn’t get the chance to put on a performance. Instead, he exposed the fact that he was snobbish and cold.
The next day, Zhao Shuo even made a point to call the boys’ dorm early, reminding Zhao Mingshi that, when he had time, he really should reach out to Jiang Jianmin and his wife.
Standing outside the dorm manager’s office with the receiver in hand, Zhao Mingshi frowned. “Bro, you said I didn’t have to go back!”
Then something occurred to him, and he asked immediately, “Did Jiang Luo go back home?”
“No,” Zhao Shuo said. “He didn’t.”
Zhao Mingshi let out a quiet breath.
Zhao Shuo continued, “I’m not forcing you to go back. But Mom and Dad are right—those people at the silk factory are your biological parents. They didn’t abandon you on purpose. You should at least—”
“Do Mom and Dad want me to go back there?” Zhao Mingshi asked, panicked.
“No, not go back. Just… maintain some contact. They are your parents. You’re connected by blood.”
Zhao Mingshi wasn’t stupid. He knew that if he insisted on never returning, he would look heartless and destroy the “good son” image he’d built in the Zhao family.
He fell silent for a moment, then softened his tone to defend himself. “I have been calling them. It’s just that the whole summer I’ve been working on a project with a professor at school. I’ve been too busy to visit.”
Once he hung up, his expression fell instantly.
He hoped Jiang Luo would stay away—forever.
And he needed to come up with a reasonable excuse for why he wasn’t going back to that awful dorm building.
That run-down block with no private bathrooms? No way he was staying there.
Two factory workers who didn’t even earn five hundred a month? No way he was recognizing them.
Two days later, after Zhang Xiangping called again, Zhao Mingshi finally left school, took a taxi, and headed for the silk factory dorms.
Climbing the stairs, he caught a whiff of the shared bathroom and immediately raised a hand to cover his nose, face twisted in disgust.
As he walked, he happened to see Jiang Luo coming down from the second floor.
Still covering his nose, Zhao Mingshi looked up and froze for a moment, slowing his steps.
But Jiang Luo didn’t even spare him a glance. He walked past him quickly and headed downstairs.
Zhao Mingshi watched him go, emotions mixing in his chest.
Especially when he remembered that Jiang Luo—not him—was the real son of Su Lan and Zhao Guangyuan, the one who should’ve grown up in a fancy house. Bitterness twisted in his stomach.
He forced himself to look away and continued upstairs.
He thought: He couldn’t let Jiang Luo go back to the Zhao family. No way.
And he definitely couldn’t let Jiang Luo push him out of it.
Absolutely not.
Stepping onto the second-floor balcony, he glanced down and saw Jiang Luo climb into a truck as it slowly backed out.
At the same time, Zhang Xiangping came over with a bright smile. “Mingming, you’re here!”
He turned toward her and asked, “Was that Jiang Luo’s truck?”
He still didn’t know Jiang Luo had long since moved out.
Zhang Xiangping spared the departing truck a glance, her eyes briefly flashing with irritation, then quickly returned to fussing over Zhao Mingshi. “Don’t worry about him.”
She smiled wide. “Come on, let’s go home. Mom cooked something good for you. I even went to the market this morning to get a fresh chicken.”
Zhao Mingshi watched the truck disappear around the corner, thoughtful, then said nothing and followed her toward the unit on the west side.
But the closer they got, the more disgusted he looked—everywhere was shabby. The walls were yellowing, and every doorway was piled with brooms, coal, and random junk. Even the concrete railings were cracked in places, the steel bars showing through.
He hated it here.
If it weren’t to keep up appearances for Su Lan and the others, he’d never have come.
Picking up goods at the train station, loading them onto the truck, driving to the same handful of markets, selling on the spot—during this short half month, Jiang Luo and Wang Chuang had been making a killing. Money was pouring in.
Ten thousand, twenty thousand… thirty, forty… They were pocketing five-figure sums like it was nothing, their wallets stuffed full of cash.
Selling, collecting, counting—Wang Chuang reclined in the passenger seat, sweating, blasting the AC, already imagining himself as a big boss. “Just wait till we start sending this stuff all over the country. Forget tens of thousands—we’ll be making hundreds of thousands! Millions!”
He laughed loud and long.
He didn’t feel the exhaustion anymore—not from hauling products nor from selling. His hands and eyes were full of money; his heart was full of ambition.
Jiang Luo leaned back with a lollipop between his teeth, lips lifting slightly but keeping quiet. Inwardly, he said only one thing: You’re oversimplifying it.
That day, they picked up their latest batch from the station, loaded the truck, and drove toward the small market. Jiang Luo drove; Wang Chuang, bored, flipped through the notebook where Jiang Luo tracked their sales.
“Should we raise the prices on these top sellers?” Wang Chuang asked, genuinely thinking he had real business sense.
Once they parked behind the market building and climbed out, Wang Chuang casually looked ahead—then froze.
Not far away, another truck was parked. Behind it sat a stack of large cardboard boxes, and a bunch of familiar vendors from the small market were gathered around it.
What the hell?!
Wang Chuang blinked.
He and Jiang Luo walked to the back of their own truck. Wang Chuang took a long look and realized someone had copied them—hauling goods to sell at the same small market.
Shit.
What were they selling?
Wang Chuang shoved the unlit cigarette behind his ear and rushed over.
Jiang Luo didn’t follow, just narrowed his eyes and watched from a distance. He already had a good idea.
Wang Chuang hurried over, and as soon as he peered inside the boxes, his expression twisted—everything inside was exactly the same hot-selling products they’d been selling.
Then he looked up. The vendors crowding around were all familiar faces from the small market.
He listened and cursed silently—their prices were even lower.
Scanning the area again, he spotted three men in tank tops—one moving boxes, one bagging goods, and one handling payment.
Two of them noticed him.
One of them snapped impatiently, “What do you want? Buying or not? If you’re buying, pick something. If not, don’t stand here.”
Wang Chuang snapped right back, hands on hips. “What do I want? What the hell are you doing?!”
“Old Wang!”
Jiang Luo called from behind.
Wang Chuang swallowed the argument and ran back.
The moment he reached Jiang Luo, the grin on his face was gone. “Shit—they’re selling the same stuff as us. And I think they’re cheaper.”