77: Chapter 80: Mom is also a first-time mom.

Auntie Zhao's lips moved; words were stuck in her throat, refusing to come out.

The air in the classroom was so stifling it was hard to breathe.

Fang Jiming did not rush her; he simply pushed the box of tissues another two centimeters toward her.

Auntie Zhao's fingers clutched the fabric on her knees, creating a patch of wrinkles; her nails dug in and then released, over and over again.

She took a breath.

"I'm not here to apologize."

As soon as these words came out, Han Bingbing's shoulders shuddered, and her eyes, which had just lifted from the gap in her arms, buried themselves back in.

Fang Jiming glanced at Auntie Zhao but didn't respond.

Auntie Zhao stared at the untouched bottle of mineral water on the table, her voice so hoarse it was barely audible.

"Because I don't know how to apologize."

"I don't know where to start apologizing—tearing up your diary, installing cameras, locking the door, or throwing away that row of rabbits you had."

"There are too many; I can't count them all."

Her nostrils began to turn red, and the moisture in her eyes glinted under the fluorescent lights.

"But there is one thing I want to say."

"Something that neither you nor Teacher Fang knows."

Fang Jiming sat up slightly.

Han Bingbing revealed half an eye from the gap in her arms; it was red and swollen, staring at Auntie Zhao's profile.

Auntie Zhao's gaze drifted outside the classroom window, her voice growing quieter and quieter, so soft it was about to dissipate into the air.

"Your grandmother—you probably don't have much of an impression of her; I didn't let you go there again after you turned three."

Han Bingbing's eyelashes fluttered.

"Your grandmother played the piano; she was a teacher at the district cultural center. Everyone outside would say she was elegant, proper, and cultured."

Auntie Zhao's mouth twitched. There was no smile in that curve; it was a pain hidden for many years.

"She started teaching me piano when I was four, three hours every day. If I played a wrong note, she would whip the back of my hand with a belt. When it swelled up, she'd make me play with my left hand."

Han Bingbing froze in place.

Han Zhiguo raised his head, his lips pressed tightly together, his eyes rimmed with red.

Auntie Zhao's voice began to tremble, but she did not stop.

"Before I was eighteen, I never chose a single piece of clothing for myself. All my dresses were bought by her; even the colors had to be decided by her—blue or gray, because she thought these two colors were clean."

"On the day I filled out my college entrance exam applications, she locked me in my room, took my admission ticket and ID card, and filled out a teaching college application for me."

Han Bingbing's fingers tightened quietly on the edge of the desk.

"I didn't want to be a teacher; I wanted to study design, but she said design wasn't a proper profession."

Auntie Zhao lowered her head, tears sliding from her eyes and landing on the knees of her black skirt.

"The husband she picked for me was also one she thought would be easy to manipulate."

She glanced at Han Zhiguo. Han Zhiguo didn't speak; he just lowered his head, the back of his neck tensed straight.

"My marriage to Han Zhiguo had nothing to do with love. My mother said this man was honest and wouldn't control me in the future, allowing me to live a good life."

The classroom was so quiet that the ticking of the clock on the wall at the end of the corridor could be heard.

Auntie Zhao wiped her face with the back of her hand. Her concealer was completely ruined, revealing two dark, purple-tinged circles under her eyes.

"I always thought I was different from her."

"I thought the clothes I bought for Bingbing were all chosen by her herself; I thought everything I made her study was discussed with her; I thought I was much better than my mother."

Her voice cut off here.

"Until that morning."

"The day Teacher Fang said I was a jailer."

Fang Jiming's fingers squeezed gently against his knee.

Auntie Zhao raised her head, her eyes completely red.

"I went home and washed my face alone in the bathroom. After I finished, I looked up into the mirror."

"There was a face in the mirror."

"The expression on that face, the curve of the corners of the mouth turned down, that force in the eyes saying you must listen to me."

"It was exactly the same as my mother's."

Her whole body began to tremble violently. She covered her face with both hands, tears squeezing out between her fingers and streaming down line by line.

"I stood in the bathroom and cried for over an hour, turning the faucet on to the maximum, afraid the neighbors next door would hear."

"I always thought I had escaped, thought I was different from her."

"In the end, I still grew up to be her."

"Everything she did to me, I did to my daughter, without missing a single thing."

Han Bingbing's fingers clutched the hem of her skirt tightly, creating wrinkles; she didn't move at all.

She had never known any of this.

In her memory, Grandmother was just a blurry shadow, a name no one in the house ever mentioned.

Mom had been locked up like this too.

Those locks, those cameras, those torn-up things—Mom had endured the whole set too.

Auntie Zhao lowered her hands, revealing a face distorted by crying, and looked at Han Bingbing.

Her lips trembled for a long, long time; the sound squeezed from her throat was shattered into pieces.

"Bingbing."

"Mom is also a mom for the first time."

"Mom was wrong."

When these words came out of Auntie Zhao's mouth, all the strength in her body was drained; her upper body leaned forward, and she almost slid off the chair.

Han Bingbing stood there, stunned.

Large tears fell from her chin, hitting the desk, her skirt, and the sleeve of the skirt she had twisted out of shape.

Her mouth opened, wanting to say something, but only a very short sob escaped.

Then Han Zhiguo stood up.

The chair legs made a harsh, grating sound against the floor.

The tear stains on his face hadn't dried yet, but he didn't wipe them; he walked straight to Han Bingbing, slowly crouched down, his knees pressing against the leg of the old wooden chair, and looked up at his daughter.

"Bingbing."

His voice was very, very light.

"Dad is a coward."

"Dad ran away for three years, leaving you and your mom behind, hiding in another place all by myself."

"Dad is sorry."

Han Bingbing lowered her head to look at her father crouching on the ground, her lips trembling harder and harder, the tears on her chin forming a continuous line.

She looked at him for three seconds.

Her hand moved, then paused.

Then she reached out both hands and wrapped them around Han Zhiguo's neck.

Han Zhiguo stiffened, and then his two arms tightly clasped his daughter's back.

Han Bingbing buried her face in the hollow of his shoulder and cried out loud.

All the grievances, all the fears, and all the questions of "Dad, why didn't you want me anymore?" that had accumulated over the years, all turned into wailing.

Auntie Zhao sat on the chair nearby, watching the father and daughter hugging and crying. Her hand hovered in mid-air, reaching out and pulling back, reaching out and pulling back.

She wasn't sure if she still had the right to join.

Han Bingbing turned her head over Han Zhiguo's shoulder and looked at her with a pair of red, tear-swollen eyes.

"Mom."

Just one word.

Auntie Zhao slid off the chair; her knees hit the floor with a dull thud. She lunged over and pulled her daughter and husband into her arms.

The three of them knelt on the floor of an empty classroom at No. 19 Middle School, huddled together, crying until they were gasping for breath.

The box of tissues on the table had been mostly used up by Han Bingbing, crumpled into balls and thrown all over the floor.

Fang Jiming sat on the fourth chair, his hands crossed on his knees.

He did not move.

He watched the three people in front of him, his throat bobbing. His eyes burned and ached, but he gritted his back teeth and didn't let anything flow out.

The System Panel silently popped up in his mind.

[Ding! Core student Han Bingbing "Family Relationship Repair" progress: 0% → 38%]

[Detected ice-breaking progress in parent-child relationship; continue to maintain and promote subsequent repair.]

Fang Jiming closed the panel in his mind, slowly stood up, and pushed the chair back, trying his best not to make a sound.

He walked to the classroom door, opened it, and walked out.

The door closed gently behind him, cutting off the intermittent sobbing inside.

The corridor was empty, with only the sound of students playing ball in the distance on the playground and occasional laughter drifting over.

Fang Jiming leaned against the wall, the back of his head resting against the paint-peeling white wall. He looked up at the mottled water stains on the ceiling and stood there for a while.

He thought of the story Teacher Wen Ruyan had told him, the old lady who changed her life after studying for one semester.

He thought of the stack of lesson plans that Old Liu kept locked in the office.

And the pair of calloused hands that Wang Tiezhu revealed when he bowed.

His phone vibrated in his pocket.

Fang Jiming took it out and glanced at it; it was a text message from Chen Jianhua: Zhou Yifei arrived in Nanqiao this afternoon, one day earlier than expected. He is currently staying at an express hotel near the Nanqiao Bus Station. We are following him; please advise.

Fang Jiming lifted his gaze from the phone screen; the lingering warmth in his eyes instantly dissipated completely.

He put the phone back in his pocket and looked back at the closed door of the classroom.

Inside the door, the family of three was still hugging and crying.

Outside the door, a scumbag full of sweet talk had already arrived at the station.

Fang Jiming pushed off from the wall, patted the non-existent dust off his pants, and walked toward the stairs.

His footsteps were much faster than when he came.