TBW - 24

24. Half-Stinginess

After drinking her porridge in the afternoon, Cheng Simin unusually refrained from logging into her games immediately. Instead, she spent some time playing tug-of-war with Beibei using dog toys.

Pulling on a baseball cap to tame her messy bedhead, Cheng Simin grabbed an umbrella and walked to a wholesale hot pot ingredients store in the commercial district. She planned to buy tripe, duck blood, and other items for a dish she’d been craving since last week—spicy duck blood pudding. Unfortunately, the portion sizes were too large for one person; even the bean sprouts and cabbage meant to accompany the dish would last her two days. This time, however, she justified the purchase by convincing herself it was for a two-person meal.

A box of duck blood cost four yuan, black tripe thirty-eight, and white thousand-layer tripe—tiny boxes barely larger than a fingernail, containing about ten pieces—also thirty-eight yuan each.

Cheng Simin first tucked a box of duck blood under her arm, then selected a block of luncheon meat with a higher starch content. Finally, after some hesitation, she returned to the refrigerated display case and grabbed a bag of tripe and two boxes of thousand-layer tripe.

Cooking at home was always cheaper than eating out, and besides, this shopping spree was partially funded by Shi Ying’s money. Spending someone else’s cash naturally dulled any sense of guilt, leaving Cheng Simin only half-stingy.

The total came to 124 yuan. As the male shopkeeper bagged her items at the counter, he offered her a discount to encourage repeat business: “Young lady, just give me 120 yuan. Next time you want hot pot ingredients, come back here. I’ve got everything you need, and if you buy more, I’ll give you a discount. Many local restaurants source their supplies from me.”

“Very affordable!” he added with a smile.

Cheng Simin smiled back, thanking him repeatedly as she scanned the payment code. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted a large open box of Arctic sweet shrimp in the freezer.

Just as she asked the shopkeeper about the price of the shrimp, the toy monkey hanging on the glass door shrieked its mechanical “Welcome!” A woman in a blue tracksuit hurried into the store, speaking in heavily accented Northwest Mandarin: “Boss, did you prepare the stuff I ordered?”

Recognizing a regular customer, the shopkeeper quickly stepped out from behind the counter. “Yes, yes! It’s all in the freezer—the same things your husband ordered last time: fish balls, fish rolls, fish fillets, lobster balls, fish roe pouches, tripe, and sweet-and-spicy snacks, right?”

“Are you still setting up your stall tonight despite the rain? Will there be any customers at the night market?”

The woman remained silent, walking directly behind Cheng Simin and yanking open the freezer door.

The familiar tracksuit, the distinctive voice—and that special maternal connection between mother and daughter.

From the moment the woman entered, Cheng Simin felt as though struck by lightning. Now, straining her peripheral vision to its limits, she confirmed what she had feared: on the woman’s left hand, which was busy moving cardboard boxes, the little finger was missing.

When Chen Xiaofen dropped out of middle school to work in the fields with her parents, she was just sixteen. That summer evening, during the village’s power grid renovation, her younger brothers had slacked off and gone home early for dinner. After finishing watering the family’s melon field, Chen Xiaofen, her stomach growling, decided to take a shortcut while carrying her flat bamboo pole.

It was a desolate path, rarely traversed by anyone—unfortunately, fate placed her there at the wrong time. An old wooden utility pole, neglected and weakened during construction, collapsed, sending high-voltage wires crashing down. One of them struck the frail Chen Xiaofen, who lost consciousness amidst the terrified screams of the workers.

When she woke up from the coma, her burnt little finger had already been surgically removed. Staring at her maimed left hand, tears streamed down her face. Her parents, instead of comforting her, beat her body and called her “tough-luck.”

After all, most people struck by high-voltage electricity wouldn’t survive—but because she had been holding a bamboo pole, only one finger had touched the wire.

That year, her parents spent 4,000 yuan to save her life. Two years later, she was betrothed to Cheng Wei, a notorious layabout from the neighboring village who despised farming, in exchange for a 20,000-yuan bride price that repaid her parents’ “kindness.”

As a child, Cheng Simin cried countless times over her mother’s missing finger. Even before she could speak fluently, she would cradle Chen Xiaofen’s right hand, blowing on it and asking, “Does it hurt?” Because of her mother’s disability, Cheng Simin went out of her way to ease her burden before high school. She learned to cook, sell vegetables, and wash socks and underwear for her parents using a washboard.

Back then, Cheng Simin truly loved Chen Xiaofen with all the devotion a daughter could muster for her mother. Chen Xiaofen, in turn, never missed an opportunity to praise her daughter to others, boasting that Cheng Simin had always been considerate and caring since she was a child—a warm little cotton jacket, worth more than gold.

But as time passed, the mother had become someone the daughter dreaded seeing the most.

Realizing that the woman behind her was indeed Chen Xiaofen, Cheng Simin’s heart began pounding like thunder. She tensed up, her body stiffening like a mouse spotting a cat.

She immediately turned her head away, pulling the brim of her cap low to shield her eyes, grabbed her bags, and hurried toward the exit. Behind her, the shopkeeper called out, asking if she wanted any sweet shrimp.

Cheng Simin didn’t dare look back. Once outside, fearing that Chen Xiaofen might follow, she even forgot her umbrella and quickly ducked into an alley beside the store.

The drizzle intensified, and within a minute, droplets clung to the strands of hair scattered across her neck and shoulders.

The terms “night market” and “stall” were completely foreign to Cheng Simin.

In her senior year of high school, her parents had taken over a small bedding and home textiles shop in Banshan’s urban village. The business did well, and a year later, they gave birth to their second daughter, Cheng Jiabao. To celebrate, they changed the old signboard from “Guangfeng” to “Jiabao.”

As her parents put it, Cheng Jiabao was born with good fortune. Ever since her arrival, the shop’s business flourished, and their lives became increasingly comfortable. The bad luck brought by their previous vegetable stall seemed to vanish entirely thanks to Jiabao.

Their initial lease was for three years, but when it expired, the landlord expressed interest in selling the property. Cheng Wei and Chen Xiaofen eagerly prepared to sign the purchase contract.

At the time, Cheng Simin was in her second year of university and no longer relied on her parents for living expenses. During winter and summer breaks, she worked as a tutor in the provincial capital of Western City to earn money. Though her university was only a two-hour drive from home, she only returned for the Mid-Autumn Festival and Lunar New Year.

On the eve of finalizing the deal with the landlord, during the Mid-Autumn holiday, her parents discussed the details of the purchase at the dinner table.

Cheng Simin initially tried not to spoil the mood, but after eating several sticky mooncakes, she couldn’t hold back. Her younger sister, Cheng Jiabao, sat on Chen Xiaofen’s lap munching on a banana. In the heat of the discussion, Cheng Wei picked up a chopstick, dipped it into his glass of strong liquor, and moved to feed it to Cheng Jiabao.

Before the chopstick reached her mouth, Cheng Simin immediately intervened.

“Dad, don’t give her alcohol! Her brain is still developing—it’ll cause irreversible damage. Are you trying to make her stupid?”

Though young, Cheng Jiabao understood that being called “stupid” wasn’t a compliment. Hearing this, she tightly shut her open mouth, dropped the banana in her hand, and clamped both hands over her mouth, her frightened eyes darting around.

Without waiting for Cheng Wei to react, Cheng Simin pressed on, addressing Chen Xiaofen: “Mom, I urge you to reconsider buying this place. Isn’t renting better than buying? Do the math—how much do you earn in a year? Divide that by the annual rent. What’s the ratio? If you buy the house, even if you can work for another ten years, how much will the cost per year amount to? It’s not as cost-effective as renting!”

“What do you know? Just because you’re in college doesn’t make you so smart!” Cheng Wei’s face flushed red—it was unclear whether from cheap liquor or anger at his daughter’s defiance. He slammed the table and shouted: “Is this purchase just for us? It’s family property! When we’re gone, Jiabao can sell it—it’s like a fixed deposit!”

“Cheng Wei!” Chen Xiaofen tugged at her husband’s sleeve upon hearing this, turning to plead with Cheng Simin: “Your dad’s drunk—he didn’t mean it.”

Could Cheng Simin not see their favoritism?

Since Chen Xiaofen’s pregnancy, she had known she would never measure up to the life growing inside her mother. But this was the first time she realized that her father truly saw her as a defective product, an unworthy heir.

Her heart ached—not because she coveted their so-called inheritance—but with tear-filled eyes, she confronted Cheng Wei: “A dilapidated house without property rights, and you treat it like a dynasty? Who cares? Only you are gullible enough to rush into buying such junk. When you want to sell it later, who’ll buy this shop? It’s falling apart everywhere—burst pipes in winter, sewage backups in summer. Why not use these excuses to negotiate lower rent with the landlord?”

“Minmin, stop talking nonsense. Show some respect for adults!” Chen Xiaofen, frantic, set the younger daughter down and grabbed Cheng Simin by the shoulders.

Cheng Jiabao, barely over a year old, toddled over, mimicking her mother, and hugged Cheng Simin’s leg, babbling up at her. With her baby teeth not yet fully grown, drool dripped down her chin, leaving a wriggling trail on Cheng Simin’s jeans.

Cheng Wei stood up, overturning the dining table in one swift motion. The hand that once held his wine glass now pointed accusingly at Cheng Simin’s face. He sneered: “Even a dog doesn’t despise its poor home. I’d rather have raised a dog than you. You think we’re poor, but what about it? Didn’t I still feed and clothe you until now?”

“How much did you cost me during your three years of high school? And now, six thousand yuan per year for university tuition—you eat my food, use my money, and still look down on me? My house is broken? My business is trash? If you’re so capable, spit out every penny I’ve spent on you!”

“Bad omen!”

In this argument, Cheng Simin lost—she couldn’t possibly return every cent Cheng Wei had spent on her. Yet, as she ran out of the house, she still felt wronged. Isn’t raising children a parent’s duty? Why should she have to endure her parents’ disapproval just to attend university and pay tuition?

Because newborns were pure and innocent blank canvases, all their love poured onto her younger sister. But Cheng Simin only had one pair of parents—she had no choice. It wasn’t fair.

The Cheng household wasn’t a fair or democratic family; it was Cheng Wei’s autocratic kingdom, with Chen Xiaofen as his most loyal supporter.

The shop without property rights was eventually purchased anyway. From that day on, Cheng Simin stopped returning home for the Mid-Autumn Festival, always using her part-time job as an excuse.

Her visits home dwindled to once a year, each lasting only two days. She also learned to keep her mouth shut, no longer offering her parents any advice, because it was clear she had been wrong—until three years ago, when Cheng Simin returned home for the last time. To her surprise, “Jiabao Bedding and Home Textiles” still stood proudly in the urban village, with a steady stream of customers visiting the shop.

It was no wonder Cheng Simin felt curious—why were the owners of “Jiabao Bedding and Home Textiles” now buying supplies at a food wholesale store?

After catching her breath for a moment, the mechanical monkey inside the wholesale store door screeched “Welcome!” again. Cheng Simin held her breath, cautiously shifting her body to peek toward the entrance.

She saw Chen Xiaofen heave two large black plastic bags onto the battered electric tricycle with force. The tricycle was old and worn, the same one her family had used for selling vegetables years ago. Its battery had been replaced countless times, and it had been stolen just as many times.

But now, instead of vegetables or thermal underwear, the cargo compartment of the tricycle was filled with large bottles of various seasonings and a stack of white latex paint buckets.