Chapter 268 Listening to Slander

She believed Fang Wanyu's lies and spoiled her like her own daughter, while treating you like an outsider, guarding against you and suppressing you. I called you lazy, unfilial, and bad at managing a household...

But now, I understand everything. I was foolish; I'm the one who tore this family apart. But now, I truly want to change, really, not just talk. I know I was wrong, and I know it won't be easy to make amends, but I still want to try, even if there's only a one in ten thousand chance…”

"Wanyin, for Li'an's sake... please give Mom another chance, okay?"

Her voice lowered, choked with sobs, each word filled with pleading and despair, like the last glimmer of a candle in the wind.

Qiao Wanyin lowered her head, her gaze falling on her mother-in-law's rough hands—hands weathered by time, palms covered with burn scars, marks left by years of busy work at the stove; cracks crisscrossed her knuckles, some still oozing blood, the result of constantly washing vegetables and cooking even in the dry, cold winter; thick calluses layered on the back of her hands, as hard as tree bark; and most shockingly, there was a fresh knife wound on each of her ring and little fingers, the scabs not yet fully healed, the edges slightly purple, clearly from accidentally cutting herself while chopping vegetables these past few days.

Who are all these things for?

It was for Fu Li'an.

She suddenly remembered that when she was first pregnant, she suffered from severe morning sickness and couldn't eat anything.

At that time, Song Yazhi stayed in the kitchen every day, trying different ways to make soup and porridge, afraid that she wouldn't get enough nutrition.

What impressed her even more was that in the three months before her child was born, Song Yazhi stayed up for three consecutive nights, sitting under the lamp, wearing reading glasses, and sewing several baby clothes stitch by stitch.

The stitches were so fine they looked like embroidery, and the edges were all ironed flat and neat. It felt soft and warm to the touch, and wearing it felt like being wrapped in sunshine.

She said, "This is my first gift as a grandmother, so I can't be careless."

"I……"

Qiao Wanyin's throat bobbed, and her eyes suddenly welled up with tears. She took a deep breath, suppressing all the surging emotions in her heart. "I... will try."

The three words were as light as a spring breeze, brushing past the ear without leaving a trace.

But those three words caused Song Yazhi's tears to burst forth instantly, falling one after another onto the cement floor, leaving a small, dark, wet stain.

She gripped Qiao Wanyin's hand tightly, her knuckles turning white from the force, her nails almost digging into the other's skin, as if clinging to the only piece of driftwood for a drowning person, not daring to let go, nor able to let go.

Those hands became her last hope for the rest of her life.

From that day on, a silent understanding seemed to develop between the mother and daughter. Without saying much, a glance or a gesture was enough for them to know what the other was thinking.

Song Yazhi began to take care of all of Fu Li'an's meals every day.

Every morning before dawn, she would quietly get up and first cook a pot of warm millet porridge, then add two light side dishes; at noon, she would always stew soup, alternating between pork rib soup, chicken soup, and fish soup, with careful selection of medicinal herbs and precise control of the heat; in the evening, she would steam some soft pastries or cook a pot of red date and white fungus porridge.

Even Fu Li'an's favorite sweet and sour pork ribs from childhood were secretly written down in a small notebook. She repeatedly tasted them until the sweet and sour ratio was just right before daring to serve them.

Qiao Wanyin was responsible for keeping Fu Li'an company by talking, taking walks, and sunbathing.

She knew he had been feeling down lately and didn't want to move around much, so she tried her best to cheer him up.

Sometimes I tell him funny stories about the children in kindergarten, sometimes I bring out old photos to reminisce with him, and occasionally I will make a funny face on purpose, making him laugh out loud.

That afternoon, she rushed back from kindergarten half an hour earlier than usual. She hurriedly pushed open the gate to the yard, but then froze in her tracks.

Song Yazhi was squatting on a small stool under the eaves, her head down, her eyes squinting, and a thin needle in her hand, mending Fu Li'an's worn military uniform stitch by stitch.

The sunlight slanted across her gray hair, casting a faint halo around it.

Her expression was focused, her lips slightly pursed, as if what she held in her hands was not a piece of clothing, but some precious object that required her full attention.

Sunlight slowly filtered through the gaps in the grape trellis, casting dappled shadows like scattered gold on the old man's slightly hunched back, revealing the marks etched by time.

She sat on a small bamboo stool, squinting, her wrinkles appearing even more pronounced in the light.

She held a tiny silver needle, her fingers trembling slightly, yet she continued to mend the wound stitch by stitch, her movements slow and focused, as if each stitch was a piece of time's memory.

Suddenly, her hand paused, the needle hovering above the fabric, hesitant to drop.

Her mother-in-law had embarrassed her quite a bit in the past.

Those sarcastic and cynical remarks were like tiny thorns pricking my heart, and over time, they became an unspeakable, hidden pain.

But she was, after all, Fu Li'an's biological mother.

The bond between mother and child is thicker than water, and their relationship is deep; it's not something a daughter-in-law like her can easily sever.

If I never forgive her, how painful would it be for Fu Li'an to be caught in the middle?

Day after day of persuasion, night after night of tossing and turning, the pain ultimately fell on the person closest to you.

Qiao Wanyin stood under the grape trellis, quietly watching that aged yet serene figure.

Sunlight filtered through the vines, casting dappled shadows on her face, as if it were also shining into Qiao Wanyin's long-dormant heart.

Her gaze fell on Song Yazhi's hands, which were hanging down. Those hands were covered with wrinkles and her knuckles were slightly deformed, but she was actually mending clothes for her son.

At that moment, Qiao Wanyin felt a mix of emotions: bitterness, relief, pity, and guilt, all intertwined into a complex tide.

She walked over quietly, her steps extremely light, as if afraid of disturbing this rare tranquility.

Walking to Song Yazhi's side, she leaned down slightly and said in a calm and gentle tone, "Mom, let me help you."

Song Yazhi was startled, her hand trembled, and the needle almost pierced her finger.

She hurriedly raised her hand, staring blankly at Qiao Wanyin, as if she couldn't believe her ears.

This was the first time since their argument that Qiao Wanyin had calmly called her "Mom".

There was no perfunctory, no forced, no cold address; it was just a simple "Mom," like a warm breeze that gently dispelled years of icy coldness.

"Hey, hey..."

Song Yazhi's lips trembled slightly, her voice shaking. She quickly moved to the side, afraid of taking up a seat. "Please sit down, please sit down. I'll get you some water. It's hot outside."

Qiao Wanyin didn't sit down, but smiled gently and took the needle and thread from her hand.

She looked down at the tiny eye of the needle, her fingers awkwardly pinching the thread, trying to thread it twice but failing.

She pursed her lips gently, and finally managed to thread the thread on the third attempt.

Despite his clumsy movements, he looked extremely serious.

“Li An was quite a troublemaker when he was a child.”

Song Yazhi suddenly spoke, her tone as gentle as a sun-dried quilt, soft and warm, "His clothes are always torn, either his knees are chafed or his sleeves are ripped. I mend them for him at night by the light of an oil lamp, and it takes me most of the night to do so."