His physiological preference

Yang Zhiyan was taken aback for a moment. She replied truthfully, "Grandma Qin, I actually know you."

The old lady looked puzzled. If she had seen such a well-behaved child before, she should remember her, right?

Could it be to get close to someone in her family?

Yang Zhiyan said, "Mufei Cheongsam, you had my master make a cheongsam for you a while ago. I saw you from afar and I thought to myself, what an elegant old lady."

The old lady suddenly realized, "Oh, you mean that star student Master Mu praised?"

Yang Zhiyan smiled sheepishly. Actually, many regular customers came specifically for the teacher, but the teacher was getting old and often lacked the energy, so they often strongly recommended her. Firstly, it would make things easier for the teacher, and secondly, it would be good training for Yang Zhiyan.

Yang Zhiyan switched the umbrella to her left hand, took out her phone with her right hand, opened WeChat, and handed it over, "Grandma Qin, should I scan yours or you scan mine?"

"Scan me, young man, hurry up." The old lady held up her phone; the QR code was already displayed on the screen. Her movements were practiced and efficient. It was clear that she was keeping up with the times much better than most of her peers.

Beep, added successfully.

Grandma Qin's profile picture is a photo of a flower, I don't know if it's a chrysanthemum or a sunflower, it's a bit blurry, but the colors are very warm.

Her WeChat name is "Old Lady Qin," just four characters—straightforward, unpretentious, and just like her personality.

"Zhiyan." Grandma Qin repeated her name, a smile curving her lips. "It sounds beautiful. She lives up to her name."

Yang Zhiyan felt embarrassed by the praise, lowered her eyes, and the tips of her ears turned red again.

"Grandma Qin, when is a convenient time for you? I'm available anytime, depending on your schedule."

"Tomorrow afternoon," Grandma Qin thought for a moment, "After three o'clock, I'll take a nap. The weather should be better tomorrow afternoon, it won't rain, and it will be easier to look at the house."

"it is good."

Yang Zhiyan escorted Grandma Qin to the entrance of the residential complex. A bronze plaque was embedded in the stone pillar at the entrance, bearing the four characters "Binjiang Huayuan" (Riverside Garden).

The gate to the residential area is made of wrought iron, painted black, and carved with intertwined floral patterns. Inside the guardhouse, two uniformed security guards sit side by side, with a blue and white light shining on the monitor screen in front of them.

"Young lady, would you like to come in and sit down?" Grandma Qin pointed into the neighborhood. "I have some tea and fruit. Let's eat the ones you picked up for me earlier together."

Yang Zhiyan smiled and shook her head: "Grandma Qin, I won't sit down. I have to go back to my studio to work overtime today. I'll come see you another day."

"Then you must come." Grandma Qin reached out and gently patted the back of her hand. Her palm was dry and warm, and her knuckles were slightly stiff, but the force was very light and gentle.

Yang Zhiyan nodded: "I will definitely come."

Grandma Qin turned and walked into the residential area, taking small steps and keeping her back very straight.

She walked with an elegant posture, her shadow stretching long behind her, swaying slightly in the evening breeze.

Yang Zhiyan stood there, watching her walk into the community, watching her greet the gatekeeper, who stood up and respectfully called out "Madam Qin," and watched her disappear behind the clump of green bamboo at the corner of the main building.

They've gone far away.

She put her phone away, opened her umbrella, and turned to walk back.

Fruit crumbs were still on the ground, and a small puddle of orange water had seeped from a cracked orange. Several ants were swarming around it, busily carrying something.

The rain stopped.

A crack appeared in the clouds, letting in a thin ray of sunlight that fell on the sidewalk in front of her, like a golden ribbon stretching from her feet to the end of the road.

She thought she would look at the house at 3 pm tomorrow.

Maybe this time, I'll be a little luckier.

At five o'clock in the afternoon, the studio window faces west, and the sun shines in at an angle.

Light streamed through the glass and fell on the worktable, turning the half-finished moon-white cheongsam a light orange.

The needles in the needle holder were illuminated by the light, their tips sparkling with tiny specks of light, like someone had accidentally scattered a handful of diamonds.

The air was filled with the distinctive scent of silk, faint and like the scent of grass after the rain.

Yang Zhiyan put down the scissors and straightened up.

Her neck ached. She tilted her head, and her cervical spine cracked twice, which was particularly clear in the quiet room.

She rubbed the back of her neck and walked to the window, glancing outside. It was getting late afternoon, with delivery riders weaving through the traffic, their yellow and blue boxes standing out starkly against the gray landscape.

My stomach growled.

She glanced down at her stomach and realized that she had only eaten a steamed bun and a cup of soy milk for lunch, and now she was hungry.

She picked up her phone and glanced at the time. 5:12.

If you go back at this time, your sister-in-law will definitely be sitting on the sofa, her hand on her stomach, her eyes glued to the TV, saying, "Zhiyan's back? What's for dinner today?" meaning you should hurry up and cook.

From as far back as she can remember, the kitchen was the women's domain. Her mother cooked, Yang Zhiyan cooked, and after her sister-in-law married into the family, she didn't want to cook anymore. So, when Yang Zhiyan was home, she cooked; when Yang Zhiyan wasn't home, her mother cooked.

She avoided the job by living on campus before graduating from university. After graduation, she moved back home, and the job rightfully fell to her. Since she wasn't married and didn't live at the company, who else would do it?

Yang Zhiyan has been working in this job for three years since graduating. Every day after get off work, she changes her shoes, washes her hands, and goes into the kitchen. She washes, chops, and cooks the vegetables. Three dishes and a soup, occasionally four dishes and a soup.

After the family finished cooking and sat down to eat, she was sometimes too tired to eat. Her mother would sit down and say, "Yan Yan, why aren't you eating? Are you feeling unwell?" Her tone was caring, but it was only verbal concern; she wouldn't take any action.

Sometimes when I work overtime and come home late, I get complained about.

If I tell them in advance that she's working overtime and won't be able to come home, she won't even leave me a scrap of food when she gets home.

After finishing her meal, she washed the dishes. Only after returning to her room and closing the door did she finally have some time to herself.

day to day.

She used to think this was just how it was supposed to be. After all, it's a family; someone has to do things. Her brother has to work, her sister-in-law is pregnant, and her mother is old—if she doesn't do it, who will?

But thinking about it, she also has to go to work, so why should she?

Every time she picked up the spatula, every time she squatted in front of the sink to wash the dishes, every time she heard her brother laughing loudly while she was in the kitchen facing the fumes,

She felt envious and jealous, but if she didn't do it, her whole family would criticize her.

Yang Zhiyan didn't want to go back today. Why should she go back to be bullied? She had a job and the ability to earn money.

Even if her parents have been kind to her, repaying their kindness doesn't necessarily mean sacrificing her own well-being. Besides, she started doing housework at the age of seven, her university tuition was covered by loans, and she supported herself through part-time jobs.

I don't owe them much.

If Yang's mother knew what she was thinking at that moment, she would probably scold her for being rebellious.

She's 25 and only just started rebelling. Isn't that a bit late?

Yang Zhiyan leaned against the window, a slight smile playing on her lips. The sunlight streaming in from the window fell on her face, illuminating half of it.

She remembered something Jiang Siya had said:

"If you don't even love yourself, why should you expect others to love you?"

Siya said this when they were sophomores. That day, Yang Zhiyan had a fight with her mother on the phone. The reason was simple: her mother said that studying fashion design was a waste of money and that she should find a boyfriend sooner, get married after graduation, and earn some dowry money for the family.

Yang Zhiyan hung up the phone and cried on the dormitory balcony for half an hour. Jiang Siya got out of bed, put on her slippers, walked to the balcony, handed her a tissue, and said those words.

She didn't understand at that time. Or rather, she understood but couldn't do it.

After so many years, I think I understand a little better now.

Yang Zhiyan unlocked her phone and opened Jiang Siya's WeChat chat window.

The last message was from last week. Siya posted a selfie with the caption, "Does my new manicure look good?" She replied, "It looks good."

Siya, are you free tonight? Want to have dinner together?

Less than ten seconds after the message was sent, a "typing" message popped up on the other end.

Jiang Siya: Oh, busy person, not working overtime today?

Before Yang Zhiyan could reply, a second message came.

Jiang Siya: Aren't you going home to serve that family of oddballs?

Yang Zhiyan stared at the word "serve" for two seconds. In the past, she would have thought that this word was too heavy-handed; how could a family meal be called "serving"? But today, for some reason, she felt that Siya was right.

She used to serve them.