Jiaqi’s first ring was nothing extravagant—just a small platinum band, plain and patternless. It wasn’t a brand name, and gold was inexpensive then, so it cost only a few hundred yuan. Meng Heping had bought it with his allowance that very afternoon.
When he slipped it onto her finger, it was slightly loose. Her fingers were slender, and even the size recommended by the jeweler was too big.
“Why don’t I take it back to exchange?” he asked. “They said I could.”
Jiaqi shook her head firmly. “I want this one. I’ll just wrap it with some yarn.”
“That won’t look good,” he protested.
But she only smiled, her eyes bright. “I don’t want fancy. I want this one.”
Later, she carefully wound red yarn around half the band. It wasn’t pretty—more like the blackened gold rings worn by old women in her hometown of Dongpu Ancient Town. She remembered them sitting in rattan chairs by the river, silver-haired, faces lined with time, listening to Shaoxing opera on the radio. On their fingers were rings wrapped in wool, the yarn dulled by years of dust. Yet to Jiaqi, those rings were beautiful—symbols of bonds that endured through war, separation, and hardship. Eternal.
She never knew of Meng Heping’s quarrels with his family. She only saw how he changed internships, working grueling hours with little rest.
One day, she asked gently, “Why haven’t you been back to Shenyang lately?”
He was hunched over a bowl of beef vermicelli noodles, his cheeks thinner than before. Without looking up, he muttered, “I’m tired. Too lazy to go back.”
And he was tired. His technical work demanded endless overtime. Two months later, he switched companies again—no formal contract, but slightly better pay. After graduation, unable to stay in the dorms, he rented a small apartment near his new job.
On moving day, Jiaqi helped him clean. They folded newspapers into makeshift hats to keep off the dust. She scrubbed the mess while he climbed a stool to sweep cobwebs from the corners, whistling I’m a Painter. Jiaqi remembered learning the song in kindergarten and laughed aloud.
By evening, they were exhausted. She collapsed onto the sofa, groaning, “I really don’t want to get up.” Hunger gnawed at her; they had only eaten bread at noon.
Still, Heping’s eyes lit up at the gleaming tiles and tidy kitchen. “I’ll make you some noodles.”
“No!” Jiaqi cried. The last time he’d tried, the water never boiled and the noodles were half raw. She refused to risk it again. Limping from sore knees, she cooked instead. With no oil, salt, or vinegar, the noodles came out pale and flavorless. When she brought them out, Heping was already asleep on the sofa.
He looked so handsome in sleep—straight nose, brows faintly furrowed. She reached out to smooth them, but he caught her finger and kissed it. Awake. She giggled, and he pulled her into a deep embrace.
The noodles were terrible, but he ate them in big mouthfuls, grinning. “Even plain noodles taste amazing! My wife is such a great cook.”
Jiaqi frowned. “Who’s your wife?”
He smiled with quiet certainty. “She will be. Always.”
Though both were busy, the time they carved out together was precious. In August, his company organized a trip—rafting and barbecue at a scenic spot. Employees could bring one family member. The bus was filled with laughter, like a school outing. The young tour guide, dark-skinned with a wide grin, joked endlessly. When the bus jolted over potholes, he quipped, “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Charming Dimples Avenue!” Another bump, and he added, “Those are just cute little canine teeth.”
The bus erupted in laughter. Jiaqi laughed too, and Heping leaned close, the sunlight gilding his lashes. He stole a kiss, but the bus lurched again, bumping his nose against hers. She smiled, and he whispered in her ear, “Cute little fangs.” His breath tickled her neck, sending shivers through her.
It was a perfect day. Jiaqi thought life would always be like that—sunny, simple, with Heping by her side.
At the barbecue, she was introduced as “Meng Heping’s family.” On the riverbank, families grilled corn, beef, and chicken wings. To her surprise, Heping’s wings were delicious. She devoured them with beer, earning the nickname “Beer Family” from his colleagues. Even years later, Manager Liu would greet her at a dinner with a laugh: “Ah, the Beer Family! I can’t drink with a master like you here.”
Jiaqi smiled at the memory. Back then, everything was good—because it was with Heping.
He often teased her, calling her silly, but he anticipated her needs with care. Even Xu Shifeng once asked, puzzled, “Heping is a good man, Jiaqi. Why did you give up?”
She only smiled faintly, her eyes distant, staring at the trees outside. Were they still as green as before? If they were, how could she bear it?
Xu Shifeng pressed gently, “Is there some misunderstanding between you and Heping?”
But there was none.
During the Spring Festival, Heping had accompanied her home, carrying bags through the crush of travelers. Ten hours on the train, yet he never complained. He cared for her and her luggage with quiet diligence. With him, she always felt safe.
He even brought cigarettes for her father, You Mingyuan. They looked odd—plain white paper, no brand. Jiaqi laughed. “What kind of cigarettes are these? They look fake.”
Heping smiled. “A friend got them from the factory. I heard they’re good.”
Her father accepted them silently.
That New Year’s Eve, the three cooked together. Though her father resisted at first, Jiaqi insisted, and Heping tied on an apron with a grin. She chopped scallions quickly, the knife clattering. Heping teased, “You look so fierce.”
“Not as fierce as you playing the piano,” she shot back.
Her father, frying rice cakes, asked casually, “Can Heping play the piano?”
Heping said softly, “When I was a child, I hated practicing the piano the most. The endless drills, the dull fingering exercises—it was torture. But my mother always insisted it was for my own good.”
Jiaqi tilted her head. “Isn’t your aunt a singer? Why force you to practice the piano?”
“I can’t learn to sing ‘Come in February’ with her,” he replied with a wry smile. “My mother said boys should play the piano—it cultivates temperament.”
At that moment, You Mingyuan’s hand froze on the spatula. The rice cakes sizzled in the pan, smoke rising in a choking curl. Jiaqi noticed and asked quickly, “Dad, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” he said, scooping up the rice cakes and turning back to the stove, suddenly busier than ever.
The Spring Festival Gala flickered on the television, a jumble of noise and color. It was background more than entertainment. At the table, Heping ate heartily, savoring braised pork with preserved plums. Jiaqi teased him into trying pickled amaranth stems, showing him how to slurp the jelly-like meat in the middle. He followed her lead, exaggerating the gulp, and laughed at himself. The three of them shared two pots of mellow rice wine. Yet through the warmth, You Mingyuan grew quieter, his silence heavy. Jiaqi thought perhaps he had drunk too much—he always grew more withdrawn with wine.
By midnight, firecrackers thundered in the distance. “Set them off early for good fortune”—so the saying went. Jiaqi’s family followed the custom, tying firecrackers to long bamboo poles and lighting them from the window. Heping volunteered eagerly. Jiaqi covered her ears, leaning out to watch. The night was black and bitterly cold, the wind stinging her cheeks. Across the river, bursts of golden sparks lit the darkness, each explosion piercing the gloom.
For Heping, it was like stepping back into childhood—New Year alive with color, sound, and light. He hadn’t celebrated like this in years. Holding the bamboo pole in one hand, covering his ear with the other, he exaggeratedly mouthed words at her. She blinked, then realized: he was saying those three words.
She mimicked him, lips forming three words in return.
But he shook his head, raising his voice over the crackle: “Hey, hey—you’re sending me off with just a single ‘Happy New Year’?”
Her voice was swallowed by the fireworks. “Happy New Year is the greeting. Isn’t it just three words?”
“It’s different.”
Jiaqi feigned innocence. “What’s different? It’s the same.”
The first morning of the New Year, they peeled bright red tangerines. The fruit was cool and tart, the peels tossed onto the charcoal fire, filling the room with fragrance. But the joy was short-lived—they had to catch the train that afternoon.
You Mingyuan packed her bag, though there was little to pack beyond food. Since graduation, there were no long vacations, and her days at home felt painfully brief. Watching her father fuss, Jiaqi’s heart ached. “Dad, don’t,” she whispered.
He sighed, lit a cigarette, and smoked in silence.
Heping, mistaking his quiet for worry, spoke earnestly: “Uncle, please don’t worry. I’ll take care of Jiaqi. We’ve both graduated now. If we work hard, we can buy a house and marry soon. I’ll treat her well, never let her suffer, and make her happy all her life.”
You Mingyuan said nothing.
“Dad…” Jiaqi’s voice was soft.
He stubbed out the cigarette, touched her cheek with a calloused, tobacco-scented hand. “Silly girl.”
His palm was broad and warm, but the tenderness only deepened her sadness. She hated making him worry.
Yet beneath the warmth, shadows lingered. Heping still refused to go home. Jiaqi had urged him countless times, but he always stayed silent. Before the New Year, she pressed him again.
“It’s the New Year. You should go home.”
“I’ll go back to Shaoxing with you,” he said.
“Go to Shenyang first. I’ll come after the holiday.”
He refused. She argued until her tongue was dry, but he would not yield. At last, exasperated, she said, “If you don’t go back to Shenyang, then don’t come to Shaoxing with me.”
Heping sighed, weary. “After Shaoxing, I’ll go back to Shenyang. All right?”
He looked genuinely exhausted, and Jiaqi was helpless—unable to persuade him to return to Shenyang first. In the end, when they came back from Shaoxing, she forced Meng Heping to transfer directly at the train station.
But what she did not expect was to see Meng Heping’s mother waiting. Her car was parked downstairs from Jiaqi’s company dormitory.
Jiaqi had just stepped off the train, arms heavy with bags, her clothes dusty from travel. When she saw the elegant figure step out of the car, she froze for a moment, then quickly composed herself and greeted politely, “Auntie.”
“Where’s Heping?”
“He went home.”
Her tone was cold, sharp as glass. “He hasn’t been home for half a year. He didn’t even come back on New Year’s Eve. But today, suddenly, he goes home.”
Jiaqi lowered her eyes, saying nothing.
“Get in the car,” Meng Heping’s mother ordered. “I have something to tell you.”
Jiaqi steadied her voice. “Auntie, just say it here.”
The older woman’s gaze was piercing. “Do you know where your mother is now?”
Jiaqi’s heart clenched. The plastic bag in her hand cut into her fingers, the thin drawstring biting deep.
Her tone turned disdainful, her chin lifting slightly. “Get in the car. I have something to tell you.”
Summoning courage, Jiaqi met her eyes. “Auntie, thank you for your kindness. Although I want to see my mother, now is not the right time. I don’t want to disturb her life. She knows nothing of what’s between Heping and me, and it has nothing to do with her. If you dislike me, perhaps it’s because I am not good enough, not what you hoped for. But Heping and I are truly in love. I will try my best to make you like me—not for myself, but because you are his mother. You love him selflessly, and I love him the same way. Please, give us a chance to be happy.”
For a long moment, silence. Then, Meng Heping’s mother smiled faintly, her words like ice. “You speak better than you sing. But don’t count on it in this life. Happiness? Do you really think you can give Heping happiness?”
Jiaqi’s voice was calm, steady. “He loves me, and I love him. We are happy together.”
Her smile remained, but it was laced with cruelty. “If you selfishly cling to him, you’ll only drag him down. Do you know what he’s sacrificed for you? He gave up a scholarship, abandoned his chance to study for a doctorate abroad. His father was furious. Why do you think he’s changed jobs three times in half a year? Because of you. You say you love him—but what can you give him? Do you even know what kind of woman your mother is? She abandoned you to run off with a petty thug, divorced again later, and now? She spends her days with drug addicts, in and out of rehabilitation centers and police stations. My acquaintances in Guangdong Public Security described her with one word: shameless. And you—her daughter—are no different. Selfish. Always thinking only of yourself.”
Jiaqi trembled, her whole body shaking. She had never known her mother’s life had unraveled so shamefully. She had always imagined her mother happy, somewhere far away. She had never hated her for leaving. If she was happy, that was enough. But now, every word from Meng Heping’s mother cut into her like a knife.
Her voice quivered, but her eyes shone with defiance. “Auntie, if you want to humiliate me this way, you are mistaken. I feel no shame. There are many unhappy people in this world, many who live in disgrace—but it is not always their fault. Perhaps they made mistakes, but tell me, have you never made one? I didn’t know about Heping’s sacrifices. He never told me about the scholarship. But whatever choices he made, he had his reasons. I love him, and I trust him. No matter what he does, I will stand by him.”
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