The little star from the Gobi Desert, handed over to the state, is hailed as a national treasure.

"Jianguo?" The old woman's voice was tinged with unease. She looked at her son, then at the beautifully dressed woman beside him and the child rubbing his belly. The joy on her face was gradually replaced by a sense of bewilderment.

"This...this is your wife? This is my eldest grandson?"

Mary had already guessed most of the story from the atmosphere around her. George Yang had always boasted about his family background while studying in the UK, claiming his parents were from a prestigious family, but it turned out they were just two farmers from the bottom of society?

Her face darkened, all her previous reliance and trust in her husband vanished, and she snapped, "George, aren't you going to explain to me who these two poor wretches are?"

Poor and stingy.

Those two words were like needles, piercing the old couple's ears and their expectant hearts. They both trembled, but dared not scold their son. They could only look at him with the kind of ingratiating and uneasy gaze typical of country folk.

"Build, build a nation..."

This cry deeply saddened George Yang. He opened his mouth, wanting to tell Mary, "These are my parents, your in-laws."

I want to say, "Although they are from the countryside, they raised me."

I want to say, "Although I came from a poor background, I worked hard enough..."

But those words were stuck in my throat, and I couldn't say them no matter what.

Because Professor Qian was standing next to him, and Anlip was also standing next to him.

Not long ago, he personally explained to Enlip that he was an American citizen and had already acquired citizenship in another country.

What's even more ironic is that he personally called on Anlip to raise the price of materials so that the entire Great Xia nation would foot the bill.

Now, all the people of Daxia in the hall are watching them.

Those mocking gazes were like sharp whips, lashing at his face and making it sting.

"Jianguo..." Seeing that he didn't speak for a long time, the old man wiped away the tears from the corner of his eyes with his thumb and took out a cloth bag from his pocket.

He opened the cloth bag layer by layer, revealing a stack of crumpled banknotes inside.

"We heard we'd get to see you, but we didn't have time to bring anything. Here's two hundred yuan that your mother and I saved up. You can take it... There are so many things to spend money on abroad..."

Two hundred yuan.

Yang Qiaozhi looked at the stack of banknotes. The largest denominations were three ten-yuan notes, several five-yuan notes, and the rest were one-yuan and two-yuan notes, as well as one-cent and two-cent notes.

Each sheet was carefully smoothed at the edges and pressed neatly, still warm from the old man's body.

He suddenly remembered how his parents used to do this when he was a child: they would put every penny into an earthenware jar, and when they had saved enough, they would use it to pay his tuition. He remembered the year he went abroad, his parents sold everything they could in the house, scraped together three hundred yuan, and gave it to him, saying, "Jianguo, study hard and make our family proud."

When was the last time I wrote a letter home? Ten years ago?

When was the last time you sent money? It's been at least five years.

At that time, he sent fifty US dollars and wrote in the letter, "Don't write to me anymore. Sending letters is too slow, and it's inconvenient for me abroad."

Thinking of this, his gaze swept over the stack of old banknotes, and a green bill stood out conspicuously, hidden under the old man's rough fingers.

Could it be...? His heart clenched suddenly. That banknote, they hadn't spent it all this time?

Yes, he forgot that the only banks in China that could exchange US dollars were in Beijing. His parents had never left the countryside in their entire lives, so how would they know that foreign exchange needed to be exchanged?

In other words, they haven't enjoyed even a single day of retirement benefits over the years.

"Keep the money." He heard his own voice, dry and stiff. "I don't need the money."

The old man's hand froze in mid-air.

The old woman's eyes reddened. She lowered her head, wiped her eyes with her sleeve, then raised her head again, forcing a smile: "Then...then let me see my grandson, okay? Let me hold him..."

She walked toward little Henry.

Little Henry was rubbing his stomach when he saw an old woman in patched clothes walking towards him. Startled, he immediately hid behind Mary and cried out in English, "Mama! What does this poor old woman want?"

He shouted very loudly.

The entire hall could hear it.

The old woman stopped in her tracks. Her hand was still outstretched, hanging in mid-air, like something superfluous that didn't know where to put.

She couldn't understand why a child with a pure Eastern face, who looked exactly like her son, was yelling at her in a language she couldn't understand.

Mary hugged her son and pulled him behind her. Far from being embarrassed, she called out to George Yang, "Didn't you say your parents were big businessmen? How do you explain that now?!"

Fortunately, she switched to English, which the elderly couple in the countryside couldn't understand at all.

But those around who could understand English already knew how George Young had introduced his family background.

Almost simultaneously, everyone's gaze turned to freezing point.

George Yang's face can no longer be described as "white".

It was a grayish color, like a withered tree that had been drained of its moisture. He wanted to explain to his wife, but couldn't bring himself to speak. He wanted to accept his parents' kindness, but couldn't cross that chasm.

Just by standing there, he created an absurd contrast with his parents.

He was wearing an expensive suit, while they were wearing patched, coarse cloth clothes;

He sported the most popular hairstyle among the elites of the United Kingdom, whose hair was gray and disheveled;

He wore finely crafted leather shoes, while their cloth shoes were covered in the yellow dust of the countryside.

More importantly, even now, George Yang has not had the courage to pull his wife and children aside and introduce them to his parents.

At this moment, everyone's gaze fell warmly on the elderly couple, on the crumpled stack of two hundred yuan, and on their hands, which were suspended in mid-air, longing to hold their grandson but hesitant to move forward.

The gazes that fell upon him were filled with disdain, indifference, and a chilling coldness.

"Jianguo..." the old woman called out again, her voice choked with sobs, but she forced herself to hold back.

"Mom just wants to see you...see her grandson...We'll leave tomorrow, no, in a little while, so as not to interfere with your work..."

That cry of "Jianguo" was like a dull knife, sawing back and forth in Yang Qiaozhi's heart.

He hadn't heard that name in many years.

He is George Young. His business card says George Yang. His colleagues call him George. His wife calls him George. His son's last name is Yang, he doesn't like Great Britain, and he considers himself an Eagle.

Who is "Jianguo"?

That was the name his father called him when he was seven years old, during a flood in the village, as he carried him across the river on his head.

Is that the name his mother called him when he was twelve years old and was admitted to the county's No. 1 Middle School, and she made him a new pair of cloth shoes overnight?

Is that the name he was called when the whole village pooled their money to throw a banquet for him after he was admitted to university at the age of eighteen?

Was it the day he left the country at the age of twenty-five that his parents stood at the entrance of the village, calling his name until he was out of sight?

"My name isn't Jianguo," he heard his own voice, as if it were drifting from a great distance. "My name is George Young."

The old man's cloth bag trembled slightly.

The old woman's hand, which had been hanging in the air, finally came down.