Zhang Shumin woke up at 5:43 in the morning.
When she opened her eyes, the room was still dark, with only a ray of gray-blue morning light filtering through the gap in the curtains.
The ties on the wall swayed slightly in the haze, like a group of silent ghosts. She didn't have the habit of staying in bed. Her three-shift work in the textile factory when she was young had trained her body to be as precise as a clock.
There was a slight noise coming from the kitchen - Feng Yulan was already making breakfast.
Zhang Shumin sneered as she slowly put on her washed-out navy blue cotton shirt, smoothing out a nonexistent wrinkle at the collar with her fingers.
This was her habitual action, as if what she was wearing was not a street stall item worth no more than fifty yuan, but some high-end custom-made item.
When she pushed open the door, the kitchen light was blindingly bright. Feng Yulan, her back to her, was frying eggs at the stove. Her thin shoulders were slightly hunched, like a dog ready to be beaten.
Feng Yulan has an oval face, fair skin, and delicate features, but her usual lowered brows and submissive demeanor make her look dull.
Her hair was always simply tied into a low ponytail, with a few strands hanging by her ears, making her look particularly tired.
"Mom, you're awake." Feng Yulan didn't turn around, her voice was so soft that it was almost inaudible.
Zhang Shumin didn't respond, but walked straight to the dining table and sat down. There was a greasy stain on the plastic tablecloth, and she rubbed it vigorously with her fingers, but the stain only spread further.
"Has this table been wiped?"
Feng Yulan's shoulders stiffened noticeably. "I rubbed it..."
"Have you wiped it?" Zhang Shumin slammed the table, causing the chopsticks in the plastic cup to jump. "This grease stain is from yesterday, right? Do you think I'm blind?"
Feng Yulan turned off the stove and turned around. Her face was like a piece of paper that had been crumpled and then unfolded, with dark bags under her eyes. She was only thirty, but she looked like she was in her early forties.
"I'll re-wipe it right away."
"No thanks!" Zhang Shumin stood up and walked to the stove. "Who's going to eat eggs fried like this? They're all burnt!"
The eggs in the pan were only slightly yellowed around the edges, far from burnt. But Zhang Shumin had already grabbed the spatula and shoveled the two fried eggs directly into the trash can.
Feng Yulan stood there without moving, not even blinking.
At 6:20, my son Zhang Shuo got up.
Zhang Shuo wore his dark blue security uniform, with a small, chipped metal badge at his collar. The words "Golden Shield Company" were etched on his face. He was thirty-five years old, but half his hair was already white, and his facial wrinkles were much deeper than those of his peers.
"Mom, good morning." He walked past Zhang Shumin with his head down, his voice muffled.
Zhang Shumin was drinking porridge, not even looking up: "What time do you get off work today?"
"Eight o'clock in the evening."
"Overtime again?"
"The captain arranged it."
The conversation ended there. Zhang Shuo sat down and took the bowl of porridge from Feng Yulan. His fingers were stubby, his knuckles protruding, and there was a long scar on the back of his hand—a mark left by Zhang Shumin with a rolling pin three years ago.
Feng Yulan picked up a piece of pickled vegetables for him with chopsticks, moving very carefully, as if she was afraid of disturbing something.
Zhang Shumin looked at the couple coldly. There was almost no communication between them, not even eye contact.
Sometimes she wondered how these two people came together. Perhaps it was simply because they were both too cowardly, too cowardly to even have the courage to defy fate.
"I'm done eating." Zhang Shuo put down the bowl, with a mouthful of porridge left at the bottom.
Zhang Shumin suddenly said, "Your wife burnt the eggs again today."
Li Guoqiang paused, then nodded: "Yeah."
"You won't say anything?"
"say what?"
Zhang Shumin sneered: "Your wife can't even fry an egg properly, and as a husband, you don't want to discipline her?"
Zhang Shuo tapped his fingers twice on the edge of the table, his only sign of emotion. "Yulan, be careful next time."
Feng Yulan stood at the kitchen door, holding a rag in her hand, her knuckles turning white.
Zhang Shumin suddenly felt bored. She stood up and slammed the bowl on the table. "I'm going out for a walk."
After Zhang Shumin left, the room suddenly became quiet.
Feng Yulan began to clear the dishes. Her movements were gentle, as if she wasn't afraid to disturb anything. She paused when her fingers touched the bowl Li Guoqiang had used—a small stain of dried porridge stained the rim.
"Zhang Shuo..." she whispered.
Zhang Shuo was tying his shoelaces, not even looking up: "Hmm?"
"Mom..."
"Stop talking." Zhang Shuo interrupted her. "I'm going to work."
He stood up, his uniform trousers wrinkled from sitting for so long. Feng Yulan subconsciously reached out to smooth them out for him, but stopped mid-air—Zhang Shuo had already turned and walked towards the door.
The door closed quietly, but it was particularly harsh in the quiet room.
Feng Yulan stood there, still holding the dirty bowl, her eyes fixed on the trash can—the two discarded fried eggs were still on top, their yolks solidified into ugly yellow lumps.
She suddenly felt very tired, so tired that it was difficult for her to breathe.
Three years ago, when she first got married, she would still cry. When Zhang Shumin beat her, she would hide under the quilt and sob, and Zhang Shuo would symbolically pat her on the back.
Later she found that crying was useless and would only lead to more beatings and scolding, so she learned to become numb.
Now, even if Zhang Shumin hit her calves with a rolling pin, she could still finish cooking without saying a word.
Feng Yulan placed the bowl in the sink and turned on the tap. The cold water stung her fingers. She stared at her hands—rough, cracked, with a permanent greasy stain between her nails.
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