FYM - 19

For the next two days, Song Dan did not encounter his youngest daughter at home.

She had always been quiet, crying only as an infant perhaps because she sensed her mother died giving birth to her, burdened by guilt from birth. As she grew older, she became even quieter, speaking only when prompted. At five, when taken away by her maternal grandparents, she shed no tears, merely saying a brief farewell to her father: “Father, take care.” Nothing more.

Song Dan thought perhaps their bond was indeed shallow.

He didn’t miss this child much; in fact, he felt lighter after she left. She returned home only once a year, raised by the Qiao elders to be poised and graceful, but growing ever distant from him. Often, he felt she was unrelated to the Song family—yet how could she be? She was his daughter, born to his late wife after a difficult ten-month pregnancy, even at the cost of her life.

He should have cared for her, spoken to her kindly like he did with Shuqian, occasionally asked about her life in Qiantang, noticed her preferences in clothing and jewelry… But it was difficult. Every time he saw her, memories of his late wife resurfaced, leaving an unresolved knot in his heart.

...He and Lady Qiao had been deeply in love.

The Jinling Song family was the foremost clan in Jiangnan. The Qiao family, mere merchants, were unworthy matches. Yet, upon first meeting in Qiantang, they fell in love. After overcoming many hardships, he finally persuaded his parents to allow him to marry Lady Qiao as his principal wife.

Their marriage was harmonious, blissful even, until she failed to conceive for many years. As the eldest legitimate son, his elders pressured him to take concubines, threatening to divorce Lady Qiao otherwise. Reluctantly, in their fifth year of marriage, he took Wan and Wu as concubines. Two years later, his eldest son, Song Mingzhuo, was born.

He thought this arrangement was acceptable. His heart still belonged to his first wife, and despite having no heir, he wouldn’t let Wan or Wu overshadow her. She would remain the mistress of the house.

...But fate is unpredictable.

Just as his in-laws from Yangzhou demanded elevating the concubine who bore their grandson to principal wife, Lady Qiao, long barren, was found pregnant. Overjoyed, he devotedly cared for her, hoping for a son to secure her position.

...Yet fate remained unkind.

Her labor was difficult, and despite imperial physicians, nothing could save her. She insisted on delivering the child, costing her life. Forever separated, she left behind only a daughter.

He knew all children, male or female, were his flesh and blood, deserving proper upbringing. Yet, seeing the infant reminded him of his wife—he already had three daughters. Was her sacrifice worth it?

Conflicted, he neglected this child, rarely visiting, leaving her to nursemaids. Only his second son showed affection for her. When the Qiao elders heard of this neglect, they traveled to Chang’an demanding to raise her in Jiangnan. Facing their disappointed gazes, he felt shame and sorrow, yet secretly relieved. For the first time, he recognized his weakness, reflected in her calm, detached eyes.

“Father, can’t you visit Fourth Sister? She’s only fourteen, and Mother punished her severely.”

After her punishment, his second son asked, appearing helpless.

“She is also Father’s child, yet rarely cared for... Surely she feels wronged.”

Song Dan pondered silently, making no move. Song Mingzhen sighed, saying no more. After his departure, however, he considered visiting. He heard she knelt for four hours; she was young, possibly injured.

In the evening, dismissing servants, he hesitantly approached Pingwu Pavilion. Nearing, his steps faltered—how should he speak to her? Her gaze was always so cold; perhaps she didn’t wish to see him.

The short walk took ages. Finally, he saw Pingwu Pavilion’s gate. The courtyard was empty, faint laughter drifting from inside, his youngest daughter conversing with her maid.

“Miss, are you painting plum blossoms again?”

Her maid asked.

She replied softly, tone as shallow as her usual gaze, then countered, “Is there something wrong with plum blossoms?”

“They’re wonderful,” the maid chirped. “All the young ladies’ names are derived from plum blossom poems—they’re the best.”

Yes.

“Sparse shadows slant across the clear, shallow water.” Amidst fallen flowers, she alone shines brightly.

—”Shuyan.”

“But I’m different from my sisters…”

Song Dan overheard his youngest daughter murmur.

“Different?” her maid asked, surprised. “How so?”

“Our names are each from a single line,” she explained calmly. “Mine isn’t.”

...True.

“Sparse shadows slant across the clear, shallow water” continues with “hidden fragrance floats under the yellow moonlight”—not “amidst fallen flowers, she alone shines brightly.”

“There are only three suitable characters in that line. By the time it was my turn, none were left, so they had to choose from earlier lines.”

He heard her add.

“Oh…” her maid seemed at a loss. “Then… do you dislike it, Miss?”

Song Dan’s heart stirred, leaning closer to the door. After a prolonged silence, he heard her vague response, “I don’t dislike it... Sometimes I wonder if Father sees me as an extra daughter.”

Her voice was so soft, emotions diluted, lingering sorrow subtly present, like winter frost on branches.

“Miss…” her maid consoled her. “…Do you resent Lord Song?”

Another question he sought an answer to, her reply came swiftly.

“I’ve never resented Father... I just don’t know how to be a daughter by his side.”

She seemed to chuckle bitterly.

“I hope Father loves me, and I wish to dutifully serve him.”

“Perhaps everything is just unfortunate... Parent-child relationships also depend on fate.”

Song Dan froze, struck by her profound words and hidden grievances never shown to him. He had forgotten she was only fourteen, fearing being unloved, longing for parental affection.

He remembered his late wife. If she were alive, she’d blame him for not treating their only daughter well. A wave of sorrow and guilt overwhelmed him. Despite being just beyond the door, he couldn’t face those eyes so similar to his late wife’s.

After much hesitation, he quietly departed. Inside, Song Shuyan subtly glanced out the window. Her calm eyes revealed indifference and detachment, devoid of earlier vulnerability.

—She knew he would come today. Even her second brother’s words were her doing. After noon, she dismissed the maids and coached Zhui’er in asking those questions. She wanted him to know her grievances without tearfully pleading—believing accidental discoveries were more credible than direct appeals.

She was no longer the five-year-old desperately needing paternal love. Years in Qiantang taught her about human nature. All hopes were abandoned. Now, she simply needed to survive in this alien place—requiring little sincerity, as more emotion often complicated matters.

...Right?