Qiao Haixuan waited anxiously outside the hospital.
“Big brother!”
He heard a familiar voice calling and looked up to see Qiao Hailou pushing a stroller, with Shen Yuan beside him.
Qiao Haixuan hurried over. “Finally, you’re here. Come with me.”
He sighed, warning gently, “Dad’s already in that state. Just be a little patient with him—don’t argue.”
Qiao Hailou nodded wearily. He had been at odds with their father for half his life. The last time they met, the old man had been sharp-tongued and vigorous, cursing him. Back then, Hailou had thought, with such vitality, this old man could live to a hundred. And yet, now he suddenly heard that his father might not make it… He didn’t allow himself to feel happy, nor did he admit how worried he truly was.
He recalled how, as a teenager, learning the truth of his birth, he could empathize with the old man: if he were in his father’s position, he wouldn’t have treated a bastard child particularly well either, especially with such a self-interested mother. He sometimes wondered why his father hadn’t simply given him away at birth, letting him grow up oblivious—it might have spared them both years of conflict.
As a child, he never understood why his father was so double-standarded. Whenever his brothers got into trouble, he was blamed, held strictly accountable even down to the smallest detail. He once comforted himself that it was because he was the smartest among the siblings, that his father demanded more. Later he realized it wasn’t that at all—it was because his father thought he was inherently wayward, prone to grow into someone like his mother.
Qiao Hailou remembered a high school incident when he had finally lost patience. In a fit of impulse, he confronted his father, yelling, “Did you even want to have me? If you didn’t like me, why didn’t you just give me away? Or better yet, strangle me in the cradle?”
The old man looked at him with a complex expression, weary, and said calmly, “You are different from them… You’re a bastard. Keeping you was already a mistake. I won’t leave you any inheritance. Raising you and giving you a proper education and life—I’ve done all I could.”
Hailou had felt a chill, anger trembling in him. “When did I ever want your money? Just because you think I’m like that woman, chasing your inheritance? That pittance of yours—I don’t want it! Just wait.”
In his youth, he devoted himself to building his own wealth, proving himself, running his company larger than the Qiao family business. Years passed, his father aged, and Hailou’s long-sought success felt hollow—humiliating a frail old man had no appeal.
When he heard from his eldest brother that their father was ill, he thought it was a joke. But he wasn’t. Colorectal cancer, terminal. Supposedly, he wanted the inheritance sorted before passing. Hailou was puzzled—hadn’t the old man said before that he wouldn’t leave him anything? Now why this sudden fairness?
The ride in the elevator was silent. Only the soft rattle of the baby’s toy filled the air. Shen Yuan, holding Hailou’s hand, quietly warned, “Don’t say anything like ‘I came to see when you’ll die.’ You two are bound to argue.”
Hailou, half-amused, half-irritated, replied, “Why does everyone feel the need to warn me? I’m not malicious. He’s nearly… he’s nearly gone.” His voice faltered, weakening.
Reaching the floor, each step felt heavy. At the hospital room door, Hailou hesitated. He mocked himself: What are you afraid of, Hailou?
Shen Yuan stepped in first, half shielding him.
Old Qiao wore a blue striped hospital gown, sitting up in bed. He looked far older, frail, like a withering tree, barely holding on. Even Shen Yuan was taken aback.
Qiao An’an leaned on the bed’s table, coloring. “Grandpa, how’s my drawing?”
The old man smiled kindly. “Very good, An’an, you’re a little artist.”
“Dad, the third brother is here,” Qiao Haixuan said.
Only now did Qiao Laoye turn his tired eyes toward Hailou. For the first time, he didn’t scold him, merely nodded in greeting: “You’re here?”
The encounter wasn’t exactly warm, but not as harsh as before. Hailou, used to his father’s provocations, stayed silent.
He then noticed the stroller. The old man looked surprised.
“That’s…?”
Hailou glanced at Haixuan, who gave a subtle nod. They exchanged looks. Hailou assumed his brother had told their father about his child—but he hadn’t.
Hailou said, “My son.”
Qiao Laoye was stunned. “When did you have a son? Why didn’t I know?”
“Been a while. He’s already six months,” Hailou teased. “I didn’t hide it, everyone knows. Just didn’t think to tell you. Didn’t you always claim you didn’t want to hear about my life?”
The old man, momentarily hit, seemed energized by the familiar spark of argument. “Ah, right. Anyway, I didn’t want to know. But wasn’t your partner male? …Where did this child come from?”
Hailou waved off the question. “This is my and Shen Yuan’s child, born in marriage. Unlike you, I’m loyal. Outside of him, I don’t care about anyone.”
Shen Yuan nudged him; Hailou had gotten used to clashing with his father.
The old man paused, murmuring to himself, “…Back when my wife was alive, I never did anything to betray her.”
Seeing him old and pitiful, Hailou’s combative urge vanished.
Little Peanut babbled. An’an jumped off the bed to see the baby. The infant, soft and adorable, porcelain-like skin, small upturned nose, red lips, large dark eyes with long lashes—more perfect than her doll—delighted An’an. “Little brother is so cute, Grandpa!”
The old man, amused, raised an eyebrow. “Can I see him too?”
Hailou said nothing. Shen Yuan carefully lifted the baby from the stroller and, with Hailou’s silent consent, handed him to the old man. The baby smiled toothlessly, innocently, and Qiao Laoye couldn’t help smiling. “He looks a lot like you when you were little… What’s his name?”
Shen Yuan hesitated, then said, “‘Shen Qiaosheng,’ the ‘Sheng’ from shengxiao. Nickname: Little Peanut.” They had discussed at length before naming him.
The old man was surprised. “Not surnamed Qiao? Follows Shen?”
Hailou replied dryly, “I’m his father. I’ll let him take whoever’s name I like. You’ve long considered me shameful; having him follow Shen pleases you, right? No need to think I’ve tarnished the Qiao name.”
The old man was taken aback. “I didn’t forbid it. Why act so dramatic? Fine. Today, I don’t want to argue. I called you to talk.”
Hailou, deflated, asked, “Talk about what?”
“About the will,” Qiao Laoye said calmly. “I’m not long for this world. Better to divide the wealth now than scramble later.”
Hailou’s chest tightened at “not long for this world.” He swallowed the words he had wanted to say about not expecting any inheritance. He wasn’t greedy for the Qiao fortune—he had enough of his own—but something still tugged at him. Had the old man’s conscience suddenly stirred? Had he finally remembered this son?
The old man continued, “I’ve divided the estate roughly into three parts: the Qiao family business goes to your eldest brother, the rest—one-third to An’an, one-third to you.”
Hailou couldn’t believe it. A fair split? Each brother getting a share?
Then the old man added, “But with one condition—you must raise An’an.”
Hailou’s heart, just rekindled, froze again. The old man’s gesture wasn’t about fatherly affection—it was a way to ensure he would care for An’an.