362: Chapter 362 Only Two Pairs of Chopsticks Left

Lin Jianguo didn't look back at him when he stood up, simply walking toward the balcony.

Lin Que watched his father's back,

suddenly realizing this wasn't a father telling his child, "Come here, I have something to tell you,"

but one man saying to another, "I have something to discuss with you."

He followed him.

Wang Xiulian was tidying up a few plastic bags that had spilled off the cluttered coffee table onto the floor.

She looked up at the father and son; her lips moved slightly,

as if she wanted to say something, but in the end, she just lowered her head and continued cleaning without asking anything.

The sliding door closed with a soft sound.

She gripped the plastic bag in her hand for a long while before slowly letting go.

The September night wind hit them head-on, carrying the unique dampness of Jiangcheng.

Lin Jianguo walked to the balcony railing and rested his hands on the cold banister, gazing out at the city spread out twenty-eight floors below.

The road stretched out from beneath them, the streetlights cutting it into alternating segments of light and shadow, like a mended old zipper.

Silence lasted for a long time.

So long that Lin Que could hear the rustling of Wang Xiulian repeatedly folding plastic bags on the other side of the sliding door,

the soundtrack of a TV show drifting from a distant building, and even his own breathing.

Lin Jianguo finally spoke.

His voice wasn't loud, muffled by the night wind, making it sound much deeper than usual.

"You know how your mother is. She thinks those things can take care of you in her stead."

Lin Que nodded. "Dad, I understand."

Lin Jianguo didn't respond immediately, instead falling silent for a few seconds as if weighing the gravity of every word.

The light from the living room shone from behind,

outlining the few white hairs at his temples with a faint halo, making them particularly prominent in the night.

"Remember when you were little—"

Lin Jianguo's voice paused, his Adam's apple bobbing once before he continued.

"I was hauling bricks on construction sites, and your mother was working a sewing machine at a garment factory.

Back then, what we feared most wasn't exhaustion, but that you'd be looked down upon at school."

Lin Que remained silent, glancing at his father's profile.

The living room light hit half of Lin Jianguo's face; the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes looked as if they had been lightly etched by a knife's tip—

not deep, but each one was distinct.

Lin Jianguo's gaze remained fixed on the distance, his lips slightly pursed,

as if he were biting down on something to keep it from escaping his mouth.

The night wind continued to sweep across the balcony.

Lin Jianguo leaned against the railing, silent for a long time.

As the night wind blew in gusts, he took a breath before every sentence, as if the words were buried so deep he had to dig them out one by one.

"One time, your mother and I got off work late, and the lights at home were broken.

You took a small stool and your textbooks, and you crouched under a streetlight to do your homework."

As he said this, his voice slowed down, every word trailing off.

"That night, I was pedaling my bicycle around the corner of the alley, and from far away, I saw a little sprout crouching under the streetlight.

Your backpack was on the ground serving as a desk, and mosquitoes were circling over your head.

You were swatting them away with one hand and writing with the other, never even looking up."

Lin Jianguo rubbed his thumb hard against the railing.

"When I got back, I told your mother that this kid would definitely be more capable than us one day.

Your mother cried right then—not out of joy, but out of heartache.

She said, why should other people's children get to do homework under a desk lamp while our son has to crouch by the roadside?"

Lin Que felt a sting in his nose, but he didn't speak.

He knew his father wasn't done yet.

Lin Jianguo paused, his gaze landing on a distant streetlight below.

Looking down from the twenty-eighth floor, that lamp was just a pinpoint of light the size of a grain of rice,

but he stared at it as if he could see the dim, yellow circle of light in that old alley from years ago through it.

"And another time, when you were in eighth grade—"

His voice suddenly changed pitch, becoming softer and more fragmented.

"That winter, the school organized a Winter Camp, and it cost three hundred yuan.

You came back and told me you didn't want to go, saying it was boring."

Lin Jianguo's mouth twitched.

"But I knew. You were worried about how hard it was for us to earn money."

His voice hitched on the words "not easy," like a tire grinding over gravel.

"Three hundred yuan. Back then, I only made fifty or sixty a day at the construction site."

As he said this, his jaw tightened, and he clenched his teeth.

"I lay in bed that night thinking for a long time, wanting to slip the money into your backpack the next morning.

But the next morning, you had already left, even earlier than I did."

He stopped and let out a heavy breath.

"I only found out later that day was the final deadline for registration."

Lin Que's throat felt as if it were blocked by something as memories flooded back.

He slowly turned and leaned against the railing, forcing a very faint smile.

"Dad."

It wasn't an interruption; it was a way of catching him.

He heard the string beneath his father's voice tightening more and more, and before it could snap, he reached out a hand.

"That Winter Camp, I heard from the classmates who went later that it was just a trip to some broken-down temple.

The guide rambled about things no one understood, and the boxed lunches they had for noon were cold."

His tone was light as he continued.

"I didn't go, so I actually came out ahead. I got to sleep in at home for an extra day."

Lin Jianguo turned his head and looked at his son's smile, stunned for a couple of seconds.

He didn't respond or nod;

he just slowly swallowed that breath and turned back to look at the night scene below.

That silent posture told Lin Que more clearly than any words could—

—that he knew everything.

After a long silence, Lin Jianguo spoke again.

He cleared his throat, bringing his tone back to the frequency of a father talking to his adult son.

"Now you've grown up, bought a house, and won awards."

He paused, his rough thumb unconsciously rubbing back and forth against the stainless steel railing.

"Even though your mother and I have never properly talked to you about it, in our hearts... we're truly proud."

He emphasized the word "proud" heavily, as if it would be blown away by the wind if he didn't hold onto it.

Lin Que stood beside him, one hand in his pocket, not responding.

He knew his father wasn't finished.

Lin Jianguo took a deep breath, his chest rising and falling.

"But tonight, when I saw your mother stuffing things into that suitcase—"

His voice suddenly caught.

It wasn't the affectation of someone hesitating to speak; it was as if something in his throat had blocked his airway.

He swallowed hard twice before pushing the rest of his words out.

"I suddenly felt panicked."

Lin Que's fingers clenched silently in his pocket.

He had never heard his father use that word.

In his memory, Lin Jianguo could ride a tricycle through an entire urban village in a rainstorm,

or carry a hundred pounds of cement up six floors of scaffolding, but he would never say he was "panicked."

"Dad knows your capabilities now; I'm not afraid of you being mistreated in Jingcheng."

Lin Jianguo's speaking speed slowed further, with visible pauses between every word.

His hands took turns gripping the railing tightly, as if he were wrestling with the words in his mouth.

"It's..."

He faltered, his Adam's apple bobbing twice, the knuckles of his hands on the railing turning white from his grip.

"It's the sudden realization that, starting tomorrow..."

He lowered his head and glanced at his hands resting on the railing.

"When it's time to eat in this house, there will only be two pairs of chopsticks left."

...