Chapter 56: Sorry

I agreed to go out with Li Yongquan, partly because I’m not good at refusing, but upon closer reflection, I pinned the blame on Gan Ling.

It was she who abandoned me back then. Seven years ago, she suddenly went off to find the killer on her own, leaving me behind, as if I was afraid of being an accomplice, as if I feared getting tangled in the trouble.

Even later, when I took the initiative to say I wanted to tell her, she refused. She put a finger to her lips, telling us to stay silent about the killer, with that unspoken Sword of Damocles hanging over our heads.

Suddenly, I felt extremely embarrassed. In front of Gan Ling, I had turned into the epitome of selfishness, yelling about whether she cared about feelings or not. But what was my relationship with Gan Ling? On what grounds did I feel entitled to demand that she understand me? Just because this person never listened to others, always defining things as if she already understood me, did that mean I had to retort?

The twilight and night in the courtyard intertwined into an ambiguous purple, shining on my arm like some kind of disease. I rubbed my arms, at a loss, even wanting to bolt for the door, but it was already locked, ready for bedtime. Only then did I realize that I’d spent the entire day at Gan Ling’s place without once thinking to say goodbye and go home.

Jiang Xiaohui, you shameless, utterly lacking in self-respect. Back in childhood, my mother taught me that it was fine to play at someone else’s house, but if you saw them about to prepare a meal, you should immediately excuse yourself and go home. Now look at me—I had no such sense of shame, lingering in someone else’s home for a full day and night, even spouting off nonsense and saying stranger things.

Gan Ling stood guard at the house door, locking me in the courtyard along with the gate. I didn’t dare look up at the woman’s expression, filled with such regret that I could barely contain myself. I opened my mouth several times but couldn’t squeeze out a single word.

I wanted to grab my backpack, scale the walls, flee this courtyard, and roll back to my bedroom to shut the door, draw the curtains, curl up alone, and process this embarrassment. But the embarrassment was like an overflowing spring, spilling uncontrollably in the courtyard, drowning me, leaving me gasping for breath in waves.

“Come.” Gan Ling said.

Gan Ling didn’t pick up on my previous words. Instead, she took two steps closer, opening her arms, waiting for me to bury myself in them as usual.

What right did I have to be held and comforted by her? So I shook my head and covered my face, but the woman strode forward, wrapped her arms around me, pulled me back into the house, and nudged the door shut with her toe.

My eyes landed on that photo wall again. I saw Zheng Ningning, saw Zheng Chenggang, and the much younger, silent Gan Ling. The gazes of that family shot down from the wall, scrutinizing this intruding outsider. Every time I came and went, it was like undergoing a qualification check—Zheng Chenggang was my pass, and that nearly transparent secret was my reason for standing here.

What right did I have to be this intimate with Gan Ling? Being invited into her home, held in her arms, having a three-hour phone call at night to vent my rambling troubles—these things had nothing to do with Zheng Ningning’s death. Gan Ling had no reason to care about any of it.

Our footsteps shuffled awkwardly, clashing without harmony, stumbling without coordination to the bedside. Gan Ling had me sit down.

I’d figured out what to say. I composed my teary emotions and faced Gan Ling earnestly: “Sorry, what I said earlier… it just came out like that, I don’t know how we got here. Sorry, I… I should go.”

Gan Ling busied herself in the room, opening the thermos—it was mung bean soup—and pouring me a cup. She handed it over, then drew the curtains, turned on the light. The room was exceptionally quiet, only the hum of the air conditioner and Gan Ling’s footsteps.

This woman was great at taking care of people, great at managing a household, had her own ideas, and was capable in everything she did. If not for Zheng Chenggang, she would have had a better life. Yet I kept refusing to tell her, almost like I was covering for the killer, only deciding to confess after she found him herself—

Standing in Gan Ling’s shoes, I reflected on my actions, determined to apologize sincerely, but I also didn’t want to suddenly bring up the killer. Caught in this dilemma, just as I was about to stand, Gan Ling sat beside me and smoothly pressed me back down.

The apology stuck in my mouth. I lowered my eyes submissively, prepared to take whatever she dished out without fighting back.

“It’s hard to learn to consider your own feelings first… It took me a long time to understand that,” shoulder to shoulder, Gan Ling spoke as if instructing me. But after starting, she grabbed my hand, palm up, as if to read my palm, but what came out was her own confession. “I’ve always been very selfish, centered on myself. Even when Zheng Chenggang hit me, I had to hit him back. If I felt uncomfortable, I’d make a fuss. But… sometimes, my feelings weren’t accurate. Like with Ningning, I always thought this would be better for her, that would be better. Maybe she was like me, with her own ideas… But I still thought kids were like dough—you shape them, and they take the form. Her grandma taught her to swear, no manners… It made me uncomfortable. But everyone around said I was the problem, this was wrong, that was wrong. I’d waver and think, am I being overly sensitive? Sometimes Ningning would say it too—that I wasn’t like other moms, that in other families, men handled outside affairs and women inside, that Dad cared about face, so I should yield. Deep down, I didn’t want to, but sometimes I had no choice. I’d say, fine, I’ll yield, go along with those onlookers. He hit me, cursed me, and I wouldn’t fight back or retort, trying to move him with kindness… But it was useless. The softer you are, the less stance you have, the less you demand, the further he pushes. I only realized it later.”

She laid out her own story, paused, then gave a bitter smile: “I only understood this recently too. That I was willing to yield and consider his feelings because, though I’m not a good mom… I am still Ningning’s mother. I love my child.”

Mentioning Zheng Ningning, Gan Ling pursed her lips and paused for a long time before continuing: “He was different. I thought he just had no feelings for me, but later I realized he had no feelings for the child either.”

The topic was racing toward a dangerous cliff. I reached out my other hand to overlay hers, but she breezed past it lightly: “So, considering others’ feelings is because I choose to. I consider his feelings because I want to. Considering others’ feelings isn’t something that’s just expected. That’s what I’ve always thought.”

I got it—the conversation had circled back to my comment about her not considering my feelings.

I’d already composed myself, so I hurried to apologize: “Sorry—”

“Sorry.”

Gan Ling beat me to it.

I froze. The woman lowered her eyes, gently smoothed her hair, pursed her lips, then slowly raised her head to look at me: “I didn’t consider your feelings. Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize… I just said that because of that time—”

“I know.”