Father, I’m sorry for letting you down.

Cong Rong’s hands paused mid-motion. She looked up at her son—always so gentle and sensible since childhood—with a hint of sternness in her expression. Her face gradually softened, but her words remained earnest and weighty. “You’re still young. Don’t harbor such thoughts or feelings.”

“There are no perfect saints in this world. They do live better than us, and showing off a bit, saying a few words, is only human nature. You’re still so young; don’t let yourself develop a narrow mind. No matter how good your grades are, you won’t achieve much with that attitude.”

Under the lamp’s glow, his mother’s face, now in her thirties, lay mostly in shadow, but the seriousness with which she spoke was unmistakable.

Chang’an felt a sudden warmth in his eyes, lowered his head, and said, “No, I’m not holding a grudge. I just think their nature is such that, as long as our family does well, we don’t need to do anything—they’ll come to us on their own.”

Before Cong Rong could respond, he steadied himself and looked up, asking, “Did my uncle come by yesterday?”

Cong Rong nodded. Chang’an smiled, “That explains it.”

“What happened?”

“Yesterday at lunch, I was eating outside. Two of the people there were my uncle’s students. Because he switched classes, another teacher had to fill in, and the class ran late. They arrived early, so it couldn’t have been delayed too much. Anyway, as soon as they sat down, they started cursing nonstop.”

Cong Rong finished clearing the leftovers and carried the dishes to the kitchen. “They’re obviously not good students.”

Chang’an first put the leftovers in the western cabinet, then followed his mother into the kitchen, continuing, “Of course not. Later, they even started cursing my uncle. So I knocked on the table and reminded them to respect their teacher.”

Cong Rong looked up at her son, surprised and a bit worried, hesitating as if she wanted to say something but just went back to washing dishes. “And then?”

Her true thought was probably to warn him there was no need to interfere, since these weren’t good students and a conflict could arise. Besides, Fang Luguo wouldn’t hear about it anyway—but she couldn’t bring herself to say anything so timid to her son.

Chang’an understood, smiled, and said, “Then they glared at me. One had dyed yellow hair, the other a buzz cut, both looking like they’d just gotten out of reform school. The yellow-haired one asked what it had to do with me, so I told him my name was Fang Chang’an, and that Fang Luguo was my uncle—so how could it not be my business?”

“Then I threatened them, said if they kept it up, I’d tell my uncle and he’d hunt them down class by class. That shut them up, though they still tried to intimidate me by glaring.”

“After that, other students came in. One was from eighth grade, apparently quite notorious—everyone’s scared of him. His dad works at the police station... I happen to know our homeroom teacher’s husband pretty well because of an incident with steamed buns, and this tough guy must’ve met him before. Because of that, he was polite to me.”

He briefly described what happened yesterday, making himself sound blameless. “That Wei—he’s the tough guy whose dad works at the police station—he made the yellow-haired kid and his friend apologize to me. Later, he even punished them by making them run laps on the playground, with lots of students watching from the building.”

Chang’an finished recounting the events, then finally expressed what he truly meant to say: “Actually, from start to finish, as long as those two stopped insulting my uncle, that’s all I wanted. The rest doesn’t matter to me.”

“But just because I know our homeroom teacher’s family, in Wei’s eyes, I have connections and shouldn’t be offended. So the yellow-haired kid and his friend had to apologize in front of everyone and got punished.”

“The same principle applies to us. As long as our family does well, we don’t have to do anything. Those who once mocked us, looked down on us, or had conflicts with us will eventually come around, just like those two did, strangely apologizing.”

“No matter how they do it, they’ll find a way to show that they were wrong before and want to make things right with us…”

The autumn night was already chilly. Just finished with her chores, Cong Rong looked at her twelve-year-old son, speaking calmly and steadily, using simple words to comfort his mother with grand ambitions. For a moment, she felt both pride and sorrow. She nodded slowly and turned to wipe her face with a towel.

Then, raising her head to gaze at the star-filled night sky, she took a deep breath, turned back to her son, and said quietly but seriously, “That’s why you need to study even harder. Get into college, and then those who look down on us now will change their attitude.”

“I’ll study hard, I promise.” Chang’an smiled broadly. “But it won’t take that long.”

He paused, then added, “Once Dad goes out to work and brings home some money, things should improve.”

Of course, Chang’an didn’t mean they’d rely on Fang Lujun’s earnings, only that such a span of time was needed.

Before Cong Rong could respond, they heard Fang Lujun at the gate, cursing, “Damn it, you brat, always saying I need to go out and work?”

In the dim evening, Fang Lujun staggered over, drunk, his face coming into sharp relief under the light from the main room as he glared at his son and demanded, “When did I say I was going out to work, huh?”

“You’re always saying I’ll go work outside, telling your uncle at school so he comes back to ask me, and then announcing it at home!”

“Now nearly the whole village knows I’m supposed to go out and work—except me! When did I ever say so?”

“Don’t run! Come here and explain yourself!”

Chang’an turned and ran into the main room, grinning at his father, “Dad, you’ve had too much to drink. I’ll get you some hot tea. Want sugar in it?”

In the era when Cong Rong grew up, sugar was a luxury, so Fang Lujun loved it. Whenever there was any at home, he had to put sugar in his hot water.

But now, anger boiling inside him, he wasn’t in the mood for tea. Standing in the yard, he waved his hand, “No, no tea! Don’t try to distract me. Come here! Let’s have a proper talk—why are you always hoping your dad goes away?”

“I’ll get you some water first.”

Chang’an poured half a cup of hot water from the thermos into the enamel tea cup. Fang Lujun watched from the yard, smacking his lips, “Add some sugar, a lot.”

“Alright.”

Chang’an replied crisply, adding two spoonfuls. Fang Lujun called out again, “More!”

“Okay.”

Chang’an, initially worried his father would eat too much sugar, quickly realized that nowadays, overnutrition wasn’t a concern—plus, he feared getting spanked. So he added two more heaping spoonfuls, stirred well, and brought it out.

“Dad, try it and see if your son’s tea suits your taste.”

He handed the cup to Fang Lujun with the air and tone of a TV character serving the boss tea. Fang Lujun, tipsy, took it and drank, smacking his lips and nodding vigorously, “Delicious! Tea made by my son is always delicious!”

Then, tilting his head back, he gulped it down regardless of the heat.

“A father who doesn’t act like a father, and a son who doesn’t act like a son…” Cong Rong watched her son coax his father as he would a child, and her husband, oddly enough, was truly soothed by it, both exasperating and amusing her. She chuckled, complained softly, then went inside to tidy up the sugar jar.

“What do you know? My son honors me—this is filial piety!” Fang Lujun drank half the mug in one go, breathed a sigh of relief, and muttered as he walked under the Chinese toon tree in the yard to relieve himself. He fastened his belt and returned to the house, flopping onto the bed in the inner room, and called out, “Chang’an! Come here!”

“Yes!” Chang’an hurried over like a loyal servant, and before his father could speak, he began to pull off his shoes. “Dad, do you want to wash your feet? I can get water for you.”

“No, no need.”

Fang Lujun had never known such treatment; even drunk, he quickly waved it off and then gripped Chang’an’s hands, his face flushed under the light, drunken yet earnest, “No need, no need. It’s enough that you care. Dad’s useless, I’ve let you four down…”

“Not at all, Dad. You’ve raised us all this time.”

“No, it’s that Dad’s useless… I’ve let you all down…”

Fang Lujun clung to his son’s hands, repeating the words, sighing, his head falling and rising with each phrase, his voice almost choking.

“No, no…” Chang’an, half-amused and half-helpless, only wanted to coax his father to sleep. By chance, he saw his father’s face when he looked up—red, numbed by alcohol, his drunken eyes shining with tears, though whether it was the light’s reflection or his own illusion, he couldn’t tell.

He distinctly saw, in his father’s drunken gaze, a glance of shame, sobriety, and seriousness—not belonging to a drunk.

Father and son’s eyes met, and Fang Lujun, as if pricked by a needle, hurriedly and nervously looked away, then, like a child throwing a tantrum, cried, “I’ve let you down, it’s all my fault…”

Cong Rong came to the bedroom door, watching Fang Lujun sob and sniffle like a child, needing his son to comfort him. She was used to his drunkenness, unimpressed, but deep down she felt disgust and helplessness. She sighed, “Go to sleep, alright?”

“Mom.”

Chang’an turned to stop her, then saw his father about to erupt. He spread his arms and hugged Fang Lujun.

This was, as far as Chang’an could recall, their first embrace. He was only twelve, his arms not strong, chest not broad, his small body could only rest in his father’s arms.

But Fang Lujun seemed frozen, bound in place.

Chang’an whispered, “Dad, things will get better.”

“What are you doing? Let go.”

After a few seconds, Fang Lujun began to push him away. Chang’an released him, grinning, “You smell terrible, all booze. Why not bathe before bed?”

“No bath!”

Fang Lujun, still completely drunk, waved his hand forcefully, “No bath! No bath!”

With that, he rolled over, pulled the thin blanket haphazardly over himself, and soon began to snore.

Seeing him asleep, Cong Rong sighed, turned to tidy the living room, and Changming and Yanran both relaxed and resumed watching TV.

Chang’an stood by the bed, quietly regarding his father’s face—still flushed and drunk under the light. After a long moment, he silently approached, straightened the blanket his father had pulled over himself, and then left the room.

Behind him, the man lay there, perhaps overheated from the blanket or the alcohol, his flushed face seemingly damp with sweat, reflecting the light.