Chapter 254 Disheartened

She has learned to stop expecting.

Whenever I hear the word "Mom," my heart no longer feels warm, but rather a dull ache.

She no longer fantasizes about the deep bond between mother and daughter, nor does she expect someone to bring her a bowl of hot soup when she is sick.

She shut her heart tightly, not even leaving a crack.

She thought she had given up long ago.

Yes, she thought she had completely let go.

She thought that all those grievances and heartaches had settled with the passage of time and become dust in her memory.

She thought she would no longer be swayed by a soft word, nor moved by a smile.

She thought she was strong enough to ignore everything from the past.

Why are you pretending to be a loving mother now?

But at this moment, as Song Yazhi stood in the kitchen, her face covered in flour, carefully carrying out a bowl of porridge, she suddenly found it ridiculous.

All of this happened too suddenly, too deliberately.

She didn't believe the change would happen so easily.

She suspected that Li An might have said something.

Did someone persuade her to stop?

Or is this just another performance by her?

In order to play the role of a "good mother who admits her mistakes and corrects them" in front of others?

That's hilarious.

She twitched the corners of her mouth, almost bursting into laughter.

But the laughter caught in his throat, eventually turning into a silent sigh.

She didn't want to argue or make a scene anymore.

She just wanted to live her life quietly, give birth to her child peacefully, and live a simple and ordinary life.

"Li An, I'm sleepy, I want to go to sleep."

She spoke calmly, her voice very soft, as if afraid of disturbing a sleeping dream.

She didn't look at Song Yazhi, nor did she respond to her question, "Are you willing to believe her one more time?"

She simply turned to Li An, her voice tinged with weariness.

She needs rest, not only for her body, but also for her mind.

He didn't pressure her.

Li An simply nodded and helped her back to her room.

He didn't ask any more questions, nor did he try to persuade him.

He knew how deep the knot in her heart was, and he knew that those wounds couldn't be healed with just a few words.

He could only stay by her side silently, giving her time and space.

He knew that there were some paths she had to walk alone.

The next morning, Qiao Wanyin was awakened by a sweet fragrance.

The aroma wafted in through the crack in the door, warm and carrying the rich fragrance of red dates and the soft, smooth scent of rice porridge.

She opened her eyes, the gentle, sweet scent still lingering in her nostrils.

She paused for a moment, thinking it was a dream.

But the fragrance was so real that it gradually awakened her drowsy consciousness.

She threw off the covers, put on her coat, and walked barefoot onto the cool floor, slowly heading towards the kitchen.

She put on her coat and opened the door. Song Yazhi was busy at the stove, her face still covered in flour, like a child who had just stolen candy.

The pot on the stove was bubbling and steaming, and white steam rose from the steamer, filling the small kitchen.

Song Yazhi was wearing an old apron with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows, and her hands were covered in wet dough.

While stirring the porridge in the pot, she carefully lifted the steamer lid to check the jujube cake.

Her profile was slightly reddened by the firelight, her forehead was covered in fine sweat, and the white hair at her temples stood out clearly in the morning light.

The flour on her face looked like it had been accidentally smeared on and hadn't been wiped off yet, which made her look a little clumsy and cute, like a child who had done something wrong and was trying to please an adult.

"Wanyin, are you awake?"

Song Yazhi turned around, her hands still covered in flour, "Mom steamed some jujube cake for you, and the porridge is ready too. Eat it while it's hot!"

Her voice was bright, carrying the unique clarity and joy of early morning.

She didn't even bother to wipe her hands before rushing to her daughter, her eyes shining as if she were afraid her daughter wouldn't eat.

Her apron was covered in flour stains, and a small piece of dough was still hanging from her cuff, but she didn't care at all.

She only cared whether Qiao Wanyin had woken up, whether she could smell the aroma, and whether she had an appetite.

On the table was a plate of golden jujube cake, each piece neatly cut.

The jujube cake has a glossy sheen, with plump red dates embedded in the soft rice cake, as if they were carefully selected.

Each piece is the same size, with clean cuts, showing that care was taken in the process.

Beside it, on a small bamboo mat, lay a clean knife, clearly having just been used for cutting.

Beside it, a bowl of millet porridge was bubbling and steaming.

The porridge was cooked perfectly, with the rice grains bursting open, the consistency just right, and a thin layer of rice oil floating on the surface, emitting a faint sweet aroma.

There was also a small dish of pickled vegetables on the side of the bowl, finely chopped and with a refreshing color, clearly prepared to accompany the dessert.

Qiao Wanyin stood there, stunned.

She stood at the kitchen doorway, her gaze slowly sweeping over the small dining table, over the plate of jujube cake, over the bowl of hot porridge, and over Song Yazhi's face, which was covered in flour but smiling sincerely.

Her heart felt as if it had been gently bumped by something.

The scene was so familiar—so familiar that she almost forgot she hadn't experienced a morning like this in a long time.

These are her two favorite things since she got pregnant—she had only mentioned them casually to Li An a few days ago.

At that time, her morning sickness lessened a bit, and she was finally able to eat something.

One evening, she was leaning back on the sofa when she suddenly said, "I wish I could have a bite of jujube cake. I really want something sweet right now."

She just said it casually and didn't even take it to heart.

But Li An remembered it, and Song Yazhi also found out.

"Li An said you've been craving sweets lately."

Song Yazhi rubbed her hands together, her tone unusually gentle, "Mom specially added extra red dates, afraid you'd find it bland."

She rubbed the flour in her hands, her movements somewhat awkward, but her eyes remained fixed on Qiao Wanyin's face, as if waiting for a verdict.

Her voice was very soft, with a cautious probing tone, as if she was afraid that saying too much would scare her daughter away.

She didn't even dare to use overly affectionate terms, only daring to say "Mom," as if to remind the other person that she still had this identity.

"Thanks."

She sat down and took a small bite.

She picked up her chopsticks, took a piece of jujube cake, and brought it to her mouth.

With a gentle bite, the soft and chewy glutinous rice melts instantly in your mouth, followed by the sweet aroma of red dates. The sweetness is just right, neither too cloying nor too sweet.

She chewed slowly, as if savoring the meaning behind the food.

Sweet, but not cloying, with a soft and chewy texture that slides down your throat and into your heart.

That sweetness not only lingered in my mouth, but seemed to seep into a cold corner of my heart as well.

She lowered her head, not letting Song Yazhi see the slight flicker in her eyes.

She didn't want to admit it, but that bite of jujube cake really reminded her of her childhood—when she was sick, Song Yazhi would sit by the stove like this, cooking porridge and steaming cakes for her, and softly saying, "You'll feel better after eating this."

Song Yazhi stood to the side, staring intently at her, "How is it? Isn't it too sweet?"

She stood not far from the table, her hands clasped in front of her, her body slightly leaning forward, as if waiting for the judges.

Her gaze was focused, not even missing Qiao Wanyin's swallowing motion.

She was afraid—afraid that she hadn't done enough, afraid that her daughter would frown, afraid that her "thank you" would just be a formality.

"Not sweet."

Qiao Wanyin lowered her head and took a sip of the porridge. It was warm, just right. "The porridge is cooked to perfection."

She scooped up another spoonful of millet porridge and put it in her mouth. The temperature was just right, the aroma of rice was rich, and it was smooth and creamy.