74: Chapter 77 Zhao Meilan's Second Cup of Tea: Please Sit Down and Let Me Finish My Explanation

After leaving the fast-food restaurant, Fang Jiming rode his white electric scooter through the alley, his mind turning over one thing repeatedly.

Han Zhiguo was taken care of.

Next was the tough nut to crack.

Auntie Zhao.

Fang Jiming parked his electric scooter at the gate of No. 19 Middle School, greeted Old Zhang the security guard, but didn't enter the school. He turned around, got back on his scooter, and headed in the opposite direction.

He didn't call her.

If he called, Auntie Zhao could just hang up. After their conversation at the Academic Affairs Office last time, this woman had likely already blocked him.

Fang Jiming: (ㅎ_ㅎ)

She could hang up on a call, but if he was standing at her door, she couldn't exactly weld it shut.

Twenty minutes later, Fang Jiming stood before the entrance of a building in the Cuiyuan Residential Compound in Qiaonan District.

This compound was at least twenty years old, and most of the voice-activated lights in the stairwell were broken. He climbed to the second floor in the dark and stopped in front of apartment 202.

The doormat had a faded "Welcome" printed on it.

Fang Jiming clenched his hand in his trouser pocket, then relaxed it and raised his hand to knock.

There was no movement inside.

He knocked three more times.

Footsteps approached from the living room, slippers dragging across the floor with a rustling sound.

The door opened a crack, and half of Auntie Zhao's face appeared behind the security chain.

Her eyes were swollen, her hair was casually tied back, and she was wearing a pilling loungewear set.

Upon seeing who was standing at the door, her expression shifted from confusion to resistance within half a second.

"Teacher Fang, I have nothing to say to you."

The door began to close.

Fang Jiming wedged his foot into the gap, the toe of his sneaker just touching the bottom of the door frame.

Auntie Zhao pushed hard, but couldn't budge it, and looked up at him, glaring.

Fang Jiming brought a paper cup from behind his back and held it up in front of her.

The cup bore the logo of the chain milk tea shop downstairs, and a thin layer of condensation clung to its side.

"Last time at the Academic Affairs Office, you left without taking a single sip of the tea in front of you. I remembered that."

Fang Jiming's tone was very flat, as if he were talking about something completely ordinary.

"I changed the flavor this time, less sugar. Please, have a taste."

Auntie Zhao stared at the paper cup, and the force of her grip on the doorknob loosened just a little.

The look in her eyes behind the security chain shifted from hostility to hesitation.

Ten seconds.

Twenty seconds.

With a clatter, the security chain was unhooked.

Auntie Zhao turned and walked toward the living room; she didn't invite him in, but the door remained open.

Fang Jiming placed the paper cup on the shoe cabinet in the entryway and followed her in.

The living room was small but spotless.

The remote control and magazines on the coffee table were neatly stacked, the cushions on the sofa were arranged by color shade, and even the trash can was lined with two layers of bags.

Fang Jiming scanned the room but said nothing.

However, he noticed the empty photo frame rack next to the sofa; a family portrait must have hung there once. The nail was still there, but the frame was gone.

Auntie Zhao sat at the other end of the sofa, clutching a ball of tissues in both hands, not looking at him.

"I've been thinking about what you said last time for several days."

Her voice was hoarse—the kind of hoarseness that only comes after crying for a long time.

Fang Jiming sat down on the chair opposite her, not rushing to reply.

Auntie Zhao spoke first.

"A jailer. You said I was a jailer."

She looked up, her eyes bloodshot and red.

"I had a difficult labor when I gave birth to her, lying in the delivery room for six hours."

Her fingers twisted the tissue, her nails digging into it.

"When she came out, the umbilical cord was wrapped around her neck twice. The doctor said if it had been ten minutes later, she would have been gone."

"From that day on, I swore that I would never let her get hurt in this life."

Fang Jiming didn't interrupt, his fingers resting on his knees as he listened quietly.

Auntie Zhao's lips were trembling.

"I know I'm strict, and I know she finds me annoying, but do you know how chaotic it is out there?"

"She's only seventeen. She doesn't understand anything. Those men in society, they all have honeyed words, they lie to her and then run off, and her whole life will be ruined."

"If I don't look after her, who will? Where is her father? Her father hasn't been home for three years!"

When mentioning Han Zhiguo, Auntie Zhao's voice went up an octave.

She twisted the tissue into a rope.

Fang Jiming waited until her emotions had passed their peak before taking his phone out of his pocket.

He turned to the photo album page, pulled up a few photos, and placed them on the coffee table one by one.

The first one.

Han Bingbing was sitting in the classroom, her profile facing the window, pen in hand, her eyes looking intently at the blackboard.

Sunlight slanted in from outside, hitting her desk.

Auntie Zhao's gaze was pinned to that photo, and her hand twisting the tissue stopped.

Fang Jiming swiped to the second one.

Han Bingbing and Su Xiaoxiao were sitting in the Cafeteria, eating face-to-face, both of them laughing.

A grain of rice was stuck to the corner of Han Bingbing's mouth, and Su Xiaoxiao reached out to point it out to her. The shutter had caught that exact moment.

Auntie Zhao's finger reached out, trembling as it touched the screen.

The third one.

On the dormitory windowsill sat a small succulent, its emerald green leaves plump and round.

Next to the succulent stood a small handwritten card with the words "Keep it up" written in crooked letters.

Auntie Zhao stared at the succulent, a soft whimper escaping her throat.

Fang Jiming took his phone back, his voice very low.

"Auntie Zhao, these photos are Bingbing's daily life at school this week."

"No one is monitoring her, no one is going through her bag, no one has installed a lock on her door."

"She voluntarily borrowed a book from a classmate—Lu Yao's 'Ordinary World'."

"She raised her hand once during the Chinese Language class on Wednesday to answer a question about translating classical Chinese. Although she got it wrong, Teacher Wen praised her for her courage."

Auntie Zhao's shoulders began to shake violently.

She buried her face in her palms, and suppressed sobs leaked out from between her fingers.

Fang Jiming didn't press his advantage, nor did he repeat harsh words like "jailer."

He just sat there quietly, waiting for her to finish crying.

The wall clock in the living room ticked away, every tick of the second hand clearly audible.

Auntie Zhao cried for nearly three minutes before lifting her head from the tissues.

Her eyes were swollen into slits, and the tip of her nose was bright red.

"She… did she really raise her hand?"

"She did."

"Since third grade, I heard from her teachers that she never raised her hand in class again."

Auntie Zhao's voice was shattered, and she had to struggle to get each word out.

Fang Jiming stood up, walked over to the water dispenser, poured a cup of warm water, and placed it beside her.

"Auntie Zhao, it's not that she doesn't want to be your good daughter."

"She just needs a place where she can breathe."

Auntie Zhao took the cup, her ten fingers gripping the sides, motionless.

Fang Jiming saw the opportunity and shifted the conversation.

"This Saturday at 2:00 PM, I've arranged a family communication session at the school, with a professional psychological counselor present to assist."

"Bingbing will be there."

He paused.

"Han Zhiguo will also be there."

Auntie Zhao's hand gripping the cup tightened sharply, and the water inside sloshed out, soaking her cuff.

Her expression changed three times in one second.

Sadness.

Anger.

Fear.

The three emotions flickered across her face rapidly, finally settling into a complex look that was hard to describe.

"What face does he have to come back?"

The voice was squeezed out through her teeth, carrying three years' worth of hatred.

"Three years, three whole years, he hasn't made a single phone call to Bingbing. Not for her birthday, not for the New Year, not even a text message."

"What kind of father is he?"

Fang Jiming didn't defend Han Zhiguo; he just put both hands in his pockets, standing in the entryway at a distance neither too far nor too close.

"Whatever he owes you and Bingbing, let him explain it to your faces on Saturday."

Auntie Zhao's chest heaved violently, her lips opening and closing, opening and closing.

The only sound left in the living room was the ticking of the wall clock.

Tick. Tock.

Auntie Zhao lowered her head, staring at the water still sloshing in the cup.

She remained silent for a long time, her fingers rubbing against the side of the cup, then rubbing again.

"Okay."

The word almost fell out of her throat, so soft it was nearly drowned out by the sound of the clock.

Fang Jiming turned and walked toward the door, his hand resting on the doorknob.

"Auntie Zhao, Saturday at 2:00 PM, the classroom at the far east end of the first floor at No. 19 Middle School. I'll be waiting for you."

He opened the door and stepped out.

From behind him came Auntie Zhao's hoarse voice.

"Teacher Fang."

Fang Jiming stopped, not turning back.

"Do you think… I can still be a good mother?"

The light from the living room shone through the crack in the door, stretching out into the hallway as a narrow beam of light.

Fang Jiming stood at the doorway for a second.

"If you come on Saturday, that's your answer."

The door closed gently behind him.

The voice-activated light in the stairwell flickered on and then off.

Fang Jiming walked downstairs in the darkness, his sneakers making muffled echoes on the concrete steps.

He took out his phone, opened his notes, and put two checkmarks under the "Saturday meeting" entry.

Han Zhiguo, confirmed.

Auntie Zhao, confirmed.

He tucked his phone back into his pocket, pushed open the building door, and found that it was already dark outside.

As he got on his electric scooter, his phone vibrated.

Teacher Wen Ruyan had sent a WeChat message.

[Teacher Wen Ruyan: You didn't eat dinner again today, did you? I left a rice ball for you on your office desk. Remember to heat it in the microwave if it's cold.]

Fang Jiming stared at the screen for two seconds, the corners of his mouth curling upward uncontrollably.

He typed two characters and sent them back.

[Fang Jiming: Received.]

After sending it, he thought for a moment and added another line.

[Fang Jiming: Teacher Wen, the frequency of your colleague care is catching up to the property management office chasing for fees.]

The reply came back in seconds.

[Teacher Wen Ruyan: Fang Jiming, shut up. Eat it or don't.]

Fang Jiming: ╮(╯▽╰)╭

He put his phone away, twisted the throttle, and the electric scooter buzzed into the night.

The wind whipped past his ears, carrying a hint of late September chill.

There were two days left until Saturday.

He went over the seating arrangement in his mind—Han Zhiguo on the side near the door, Auntie Zhao by the window, with a counselor's seat in between, and Bingbing sitting next to him.

Four chairs, one table.

That was enough.