Chapter 957: Live Streaming Parenthood

“Got tired of London, so I came back home, naturally.”

Mom chuckled as she peeled sunflower seeds. “But I won’t be staying long this time—your dad already went back to New York, and I’ll take your sister over in a while.”

“Aren’t you staying for the New Year?” Luo Quan asked, shoving a walnut kernel into her mouth.

Sunflower seeds were too much trouble to eat; pre-shelled walnuts were far more convenient.

Luo Ni replied, “Not this time. Let’s come back next year for Grandpa’s birthday—we’ll throw him a proper banquet.”

Mom hadn’t mentioned it, but Luo Quan had forgotten: next year was Grandpa’s seventieth birthday. That definitely deserved a grand celebration, something dazzling to give him face.

“Sis, hold me!” Suddenly, her little sister ran over, reaching out tiny arms.

Before Luo Quan could speak, Leon pouted. “Why won’t you let me hold you?”

He extended his hand too.

“No, I want sis!” Luo Xi swatted Leon’s hand away and dove straight into Luo Quan’s arms.

“Haha, only I can do it!” Luo Quan proudly lifted her sister up.

Though she could walk now, her frail body still made her stagger like she’d topple over at any moment.

To truly run freely? Probably not for another year.

It felt surreal—last time she’d been with her sister, the baby was still in swaddling clothes, and Luo Quan had been the one feeding her.

Now, in just a blink, she could run around and say simple words. Truly astonishing.

“By the way, Mom—will sister be starting preschool soon?”

In China, kids usually begin preschool around three or four, to socialize, learn new things, and give parents some breathing room.

But Luo Quan didn’t know if the U.S. sent kids to preschool that early.

“I don’t know. Your dad never mentioned it,” Luo Ni admitted. She’d never even thought about schooling—Luo Xi had just started talking and still stumbled constantly.

“I know,” Mia suddenly spoke up. “In the U.S., most kids start pre-K at five and elementary school at six.”

“It’s because most parents believe kids need some basic self-sufficiency before entering school.”

“Then it’s still a while off,” Luo Quan said, pinching Luo Xi’s cheek. “Looks like you’ve got a few more good years ahead.”

She called it “good years” because, to her, going to school meant suffering.

Even though American education emphasized “happy learning” and holistic development with fun classes,

if you wanted to get into a top university, you still had to work your ass off.

So despite the contrast between “happy learning” and “elite education,” Luo Xi would almost certainly end up on the latter path.

Of course, if Luo Xi was naturally playful, there was no need to force her into elite academics—after all, their family’s wealth could keep her as a pampered idler for ten lifetimes.

In truth, calling school “hard” was laughable—once you entered society, you’d realize school was nothing.

Life was far harder than studying. Students just hadn’t realized yet how much they’d suffer just to earn a living, so they complained about homework.

Luckily, Luo Xi wouldn’t have to endure any of that. From before she was born, everyone treated her like a precious jewel.

Her celebrity older siblings doted on her endlessly—even before she turned one, she’d trended online, gained fans, and people swore they’d wait for her to debut as a star.

Sure, many were joking—but if Luo Xi ever wanted to be a star, resources from home and abroad would flood in.

And judging by her siblings’ looks, she’d grow up to be a breathtaking beauty.

With such stunning looks, her path to stardom would be easy.

After all, this was a world ruled by appearances—be beautiful enough, and even a prop could become a top star.

But it was still far too early to talk about any of this.

After playing with her sister for a while, Mom took her off for a nap.

The little girl had Schrödinger-level energy: she’d wake up early and run wild,

but when sleep hit, nothing could stop it—just moments ago she’d been darting around the living room, now she was tugging Mom’s hand, saying she wanted to sleep.

Watching this impossibly cute child, Luo Quan briefly wondered: wouldn’t it be wonderful to raise a kid of her own?

But the thought had no foundation—yin alone doesn’t give birth, yang alone doesn’t grow. Her desire to raise a child wasn’t strong enough to make her seek a partner.

Back in her room, she turned on her computer and entered her long-absent livestream.

As soon as Luo Quan went live, fans flooded in, ready to confront her:

“Damn, you vanished for this many days?”

“Luo Bao, you’ve changed—no calls, no texts. I’m too tired. Let’s just end it.”

“Your movie broke 4 billion, and you’re buying eight trending topics to broadcast it nonstop—but you? Not a peep. Already numb to box office numbers, huh?”

“No matter what, if you don’t livestream nonstop for half a month, don’t expect our forgiveness!”

………………

Seeing the fans’ “confession” demands, Luo Quan immediately complied: “Fine. I’ll livestream nonstop for the next half-month to make up for my absence.”

She twisted open her water bottle and took a sip—she’d eaten too many dried nuts and was thirsty.

“I didn’t disappear on purpose. I got a sudden burst of inspiration and started writing a great script—I needed quiet to think, so I stayed offline.”

“Now the script’s done, and I came straight here to see you.”

Her answer was convincing—longtime fans knew she was fiercely focused; once she set a goal, she pursued it wholeheartedly.

Especially when inspiration struck for a script? No way she’d be distracted by the internet.

But no one knew what kind of script she’d written this time.

When fans asked curiously, Luo Quan replied: “It’s a story about suffering—a rural couple’s ‘Surviving.’”

“In this tale, they’re like doomed lovers—everything in life conspires against them, crushing their already bitter-sweet existence.”

“And in China, there are countless couples like them.”

“My story isn’t based on real events—it’s entirely fictional—but after watching, you’ll feel like you’ve seen it before.”

“Whether it resonates? That depends on your own upbringing.”

Luo Quan spoke a lot, yet revealed nothing concrete—many fans were thoroughly confused.

But the core was clear: Luo Quan was making another tragedy.

Her last tragedy, “Farewell My Concubine,” won countless awards at home and abroad, earned a 9.6 on Douban, and remains one of the highest-rated Chinese films ever.

This monumental work in Chinese cinema left countless viewers stunned.

The characters’ tangled love and hatred, their helplessness against the tides of history, stirred deep emotion.

It was a tragedy—but one that made you cry without tears.

Now, would her second tragedy finally make them weep freely?

Fans expressed intense anticipation.

“You guys really like getting tortured?” Luo Quan grinned. “Don’t blame me if you sob your eyes out in the theater.”

She warned them now, so they wouldn’t come back later to complain after crying like dogs.

But the fans clearly didn’t grasp the severity:

“I’ve been filleting fish at RT-Mart for twenty years—my heart’s as cold as my knife. Nothing moves me anymore.”

“If something does, it’s just my Ant Credit Pay bill.”

“My girlfriend cheated on me—I feel like crying at everything now.”

“Bro, condolences.”

“She just cheated, didn’t die—why condolences?”

“By the way, Luo Bao, what do you think of ‘Love Warrior’?”

………………

The sudden new term made Luo Quan pause.

“I’ve been offline these days—I didn’t know what happened.” She quickly searched.

“Holy shit, you don’t know about ‘Love Warrior’?”

“I’d rank him among China’s Top Ten Most Touching Figures this year.”

“Why envy Liang Shanbo and Zhu Yingtai? Jin Lian’s not just in Water Margin!”

“Enough said—this guy’s truly tragic, and truly brave.”

………………

Amid the fans’ heartfelt commentary, Luo Quan finally understood the full story.

A man discovered his wife had cheated. He rode his bike to her school that night demanding answers.

But she called five guys to beat him up. He fought them barehanded, one against five—and won.

Yet despite winning the fight, he never got to see his wife. All that remained was his silhouette, sprinting away as campus security chased him.

Though he lost his marriage, this warrior ignited countless netizens’ admiration—they hailed him as the “Brave Warrior Who Charged Forward.”

In recent days, news about him flooded the internet. Fans wanted Luo Quan to ride the trend and share her thoughts.

“Honestly, this guy’s deeply devoted—but devotion didn’t earn loyalty.”

“No matter what, cheating in marriage deserves scorn and condemnation. If you think he’s not good enough for you, fine—return all the money, settle debts cleanly.”

As a public figure, Luo Quan couldn’t openly curse the woman in front of so many.

Though she desperately wanted to—this behavior was truly disgusting and shameless.

Even though she’d seen similar betrayals before, each time it still left her heart heavy.

Undoubtedly, this case would make many fear marriage.

But the man was eventually taken away for “calming down”—the end result? Divorce, and he’d lose both wife and money.

Honest people had no good options in such situations.

“If Luo Bao made a movie about this, it’d be a heart-wrenching tragedy.”

“It’s truly tragic, but I don’t think I’ll cry—I’ve already cried until my heart was shattered.”

“Sounds like you’re all people with stories.”

“The subject matter is great, but if it’s made into a film, some women probably won’t be happy.”

“Those feminist trolls on Weibo? If they’re upset, that’s my greatest comfort.”

“If that’s really the case, my advice is to ramp it up.”

………………

Fans’ thinking is rather scattered; once a hot news story emerges, they become outraged—not just wanting Luo Quan’s opinion, but demanding she turn it into a movie.

In truth, they merely want to use Luo Quan as a tool for criticism, but such behavior has no impact on the parties involved—it’s worse than a mob storming the person’s account with online abuse.

Now, the wife of Love Warrior has announced she suffers from depression; whether she’ll commit suicide or turn to live-streamed product sales remains unknown—it depends on how thick her skin is.

If she commits suicide, netizens won’t feel sorry—they’ll just say she deserved it.

If she shamelessly appears for live-streamed product sales, she’ll likely still attract a batch of fans.

Don’t doubt how brain-dead some netizens are; people with moral flaws but high visibility always draw anticipation from a segment of them.

Some have ulterior motives; others simply crave attention—either way, there’s always something wrong with them.

Luo Quan certainly can’t incite fans to cyberbully, so she can only touch lightly on this topic, lest she grow too agitated and start swearing.

Just as she was about to pick a game to stream for her fans, the door suddenly opened.

Leon walked in carrying Luo Xi: “Look, Sister’s right here.”

“What’s wrong, baby?” Luo Quan turned to Luo Xi and opened her arms in an embrace.

“Sister hug,” Luo Xi stated plainly, then launched herself into Luo Quan’s arms.

“I never expected this little one to be so clingy to you—I held her for just a moment before she started crying for Sister.”

Leon no longer felt jealous; he was merely resigned.

Luo Quan laughed heartily upon hearing this: “Come on, I was the one who handled every single thing in Luo Xi’s life—feeding, changing, cleaning—you two were off having fun, and I was the only one taking care of her.”

“Sister, sister,” Luo Xi suddenly pointed at the screen where Luo Quan appeared and laughed.

The reason? Probably because the version of Sister on screen was a smaller version of the real one.

And the livestream’s fans, startled by this sudden appearance of a cute child, became wildly excited.

“Holy shit, Little Luo Bao!”

“The little sister showed up? She’s getting even cuter.”

“Luo Xi is such a little angel—I can’t help but smile whenever I see her.”

“I love you, Luo Xi!”