His physiological preference

The wheels of the suitcase rolled over the living room floor tiles, making a rumbling sound that was particularly jarring in the quiet of the night.

Yang Zhiyan propped the suitcase up in the entryway, straightened up, and before she could even pull the handle, she heard footsteps behind her.

The sound of slippers shuffling across the floor tiles slowly moved from the other end of the corridor, at a leisurely pace, with a deliberate nonchalance.

"Yan Yan, it's so late, why are you packing your luggage?" Yang's mother's voice sounded from behind her.

Yang Zhiyan did not turn around.

Her hand rested on the lever, her thumb paused on the button for a moment, then she pressed it down, and the lever clicked back into place.

Her movements were fluid and seamless, as if she had rehearsed them many times. In fact, she had indeed rehearsed this scene in her mind many times.

On my way home, I was thinking about what to say tonight, how to say it, and to what extent.

Teacher Mu taught her that before doing something complicated, she should first go through it in her mind, think clearly about every cut and every stitch, so that she wouldn't panic when she actually started.

She turned around.

Yang's mother stood at the entrance of the corridor, wearing the faded pajamas and a gray cardigan sweater over them.

Her hair was a little messy, with one side sticking up, and her eyes were already on the suitcase.

My brother and sister-in-law are going back to their parents' house for dinner tonight, and my father is working the night shift. Is my mother having some free time?

Yang's mother was also pitiful, and Yang Zhiyan had felt sorry for her. It is said that poor children mature early, and Yang Zhiyan was no exception. Being sensible at a young age, she always felt that if she did more work, her mother would have to do less.

But later she discovered that while she was helping her mother with chores, her mother was helping her father and brother boss her around. Heartbreak never happens overnight.

"Move out," Yang Zhiyan said decisively.

The living room lights weren't all on; only the small nightlight in the entryway was lit.

Warm yellow light shone from behind her, casting her long, thin shadow on the corridor floor, stretching all the way to Yang's mother's feet.

Yang's mother stood at the end of that shadow, her expression unclear, but the emotion in her voice was unmistakable—not surprise, not sadness, but an instinctive rejection in the face of an unexpected situation.

"Why move out?" Yang's mother took a step forward, pulled her hand out of her cardigan pocket, and waved it in front of her. "It's not like we don't have room to live here."

Yang Zhiyan stood there, watching her mother walk over, watching her mother wave her hand, watching the "this is no big deal" expression on her mother's face, and found it a little funny.

A few days ago, my sister-in-law said she wanted to give her room to my nephew. Her mother sat next to her and didn't say a word.

She heard it, but chose to remain silent. Silence is consent.

Just like when she was bullied by classmates at school as a child, she went home and told her mother, who said, "Kids are just joking around, don't take it seriously." The same silence, the same attempt to smooth things over, the same "it's not a big deal."

As long as it's not her brother's business, it's not a big deal.

"Is there room at home?" Yang Zhiyan felt wronged, but no one cared about her grievances, so she hid them. "Didn't I already give my room to my nephew?"

Yang's mother paused for a moment.

The motion-activated lights in the corridor went out because neither of them moved or made a sound. Darkness crept in from the other end of the corridor, obscuring half of Yang's mother's face.

Only the small night light in the entryway was still on, illuminating Yang Zhiyan's face and the suitcase standing upright behind her.

"Your sister-in-law was just joking," Yang's mother said, her voice lowered, clearly lacking confidence.

"Are you kidding?"

"Mom, do you even believe what you're saying?"

Yang's mother opened her mouth, then closed it again. Her hand rummaged in her cardigan pocket for something.

"How much rent would it cost to move out?" Yang's mother changed her perspective. This was her usual tactic; if one thing didn't work, she would immediately veer to another, like playing tai chi, avoiding direct confrontation.

Yang Zhiyan had already thought about what to say.

She leaned against the shoe cabinet in the entryway, her hands in her jeans pockets, looking casual.

Teacher Mu said that the more relaxed you are when negotiating with others, the more weight your words carry.

"You know how expensive houses are in the city," she said to her mother, speaking slowly and earnestly as she did the math.

"The apartment I'm renting now, which I share with others, costs 4,500 yuan a month. With utilities and property management fees, it comes to about 5,000 yuan."

She emphasized the word "shared accommodation" to make it sound more believable.

This was something she had planned on the way. If she said she lived alone, her family would definitely ask which neighborhood, building, and unit she lived in.

If they come over and throw a tantrum, she can't handle the mess. Sharing is different; it means there are other people in the house, outsiders, and they'll be more considerate.

Yang's mother frowned, her brows furrowing into a shallow "川" shape. "So expensive? Did you get a raise recently?"

Get a raise.

Yang Zhiyan sneered inwardly. She implicitly assumed that her entire salary should be handed over to her family, and only the extra income could possibly be hers.

"How could that be?" Yang Zhiyan pulled her hands out of her pockets and crossed them in front of her chest. It was a defensive posture, but also a way to create distance. "Business is tough these days. It's good enough if we don't get a pay cut."

Yang's mother frowned even more deeply. She took two steps forward, walked to the sofa, but didn't sit down. Instead, she placed her hands on the back of the sofa, her grip tightening slightly.

"Then how do you have money?"

"Here it comes," Yang Zhiyan thought to herself.

That's the question her mother really wanted to ask. It wasn't "Where do you live?" or "Are you eating well?" It was "Where does your money come from? After paying the rent, do you still have money to bring home?"

"So," Yang Zhiyan said earnestly and firmly, "I won't have any money to pay for household expenses anymore. Besides, I don't live at home anymore, so I haven't used any of the utilities, property management fees, or daily necessities. It wouldn't be right for me to pay them."

After saying that, she looked into her mother's eyes. The living room lights were off, with only the small nightlight in the entryway and the streetlight shining through the window. The two lights intertwined, casting an ambiguous grayish-yellow hue over the entire living room.

Her mother stood in that grayish-yellow light, her expression somewhat cracked.

The silence lasted for a few seconds.

Yang's mother spoke up.

"What's wrong with the rules?" The voice suddenly rose, as if a breakthrough had been found, and the tone became urgent, and the speed of speech increased.

"Filial piety is a matter of course; you can justify that anywhere. Ask your colleagues, ask your friends—which child doesn't send money home?"

Yang Zhiyan leaned against the shoe cabinet, motionless.

She looked at her mother's slightly flushed cheeks as she spoke, at her mother's bright eyes that became clear with excitement, and at the brown spots that had appeared on the back of her mother's hands as she aged.

This is her mother. The one who gave birth to her and raised her. But she's also the one who will always side with her son.

"Then you should have your precious son show filial piety," Yang Zhiyan said.

His tone wasn't harsh, but rather laced with a sarcastic smile.

Yang's mother opened her mouth slightly, then closed it again.

Looking at that choked expression, Yang Zhiyan felt neither pleasure nor guilt.

"It's fine if we don't pay household expenses." Yang's mother finally spoke, her voice much lower than before, and her speech slower, as if she were making a difficult decision.