Chapter 172

Not knowing how much time had passed, his phone, set to silent, lit up on the passenger seat; Xu Yanfeng thought he would wait until he calmed down a bit more before answering Xia Xi's call, but a casual glance revealed the caller ID showing his mother.

Xu Yanfeng pinched the bridge of his nose, adjusted his state, and answered the call.

Zhong Yinghong heard he had been busy at work lately, was very concerned about his health, and said she had personally stewed a pot of soup; if he was done with work he could come home to drink it, or give her an address and she would deliver it.

Xu Yanfeng did not want his mother to trouble herself, and told her he would be home shortly.

Upon hearing this, Zhong Yinghong's voice brightened, and she urged him to drive carefully.

Xu Yanfeng put down the phone, his deep gaze fixed on the outside night sky, a deep blue verging on black; after a while he lowered half a window, and the cool breeze that swept in dispelled some of his irritation.

He changed his route and headed home.

After a drive of nearly forty minutes, the car slowed and entered a rather aged villa; just as it came to a stop, the steward hurried forward, bowed, opened the car door for him, and addressed him as 'Second Young Master' with a kindly smile.

Xu Yanfeng gave a slight nod and strode to the main hall.

Zhong Yinghong had already heard the commotion, came forward, her loving eyes scanning him, patted his arm, and said, 'You look thinner.'

Xu Yanfeng's lips twitched slightly as he added a smile: 'All right.'

Zhong Yinghong did not let the servant ladle the soup; she personally served it and handed it to Xu Yanfeng to drink. The servant, having nothing to do, stood aside smiling and said, 'This is a soup the mistress simmered for an entire afternoon, all essence; Second Young Master, you should drink two bowls.'

Before Xu Yanfeng could respond, the sound of a car engine shutting off came from the courtyard; shortly after, the clear clip-clop of leather shoes on tile grew distinct—it was his father, Xu Guanshan, returning, dressed in a suit and leather shoes, his dyed-black hair all combed back, revealing a broad forehead, his eyes sharp as an eagle's, imposing even without anger.

Seeing Xu Yanfeng at home, Xu Guanshan was somewhat surprised, though his expression gave nothing away; he simply said in an even tone, 'You're back?'

Xu Yanfeng nodded and replied, 'Mm.'

Even Zhong Yinghong could not say exactly when the father and son had grown so distant; she stepped forward slowly, took the jacket Xu Guanshan had taken off, shook it out, hung it on the floor-standing rack, turned and told the servant to bring another bowl of soup.

Xu Guanshan sat opposite his son, unfastening his cufflinks while looking at him, intending to make small talk in the harmonious atmosphere but inexperienced; as soon as he spoke, it was about company matters: 'Old Zheng and Old Li told me you've been doing well at the company; perhaps I should consider giving you some real authority, letting you take charge—success or failure doesn't matter, for you now it's a form of training.'

Xu Yanfeng finished the soup, rose holding the empty bowl, and said, 'Thanks, Dad.'

Xu Guanshan still had something to say, but Xu Yanfeng was already walking toward the kitchen; the servant happened to come out from there, holding a tray with a bowl of soup meant for Xu Guanshan.

'Just leave it to me to clean up, Second Young Master,' the servant said.

Xu Yanfeng said, 'It's fine,' placed the bowl in the sink, turned and prepared to leave.

Zhong Yinghong saw him take the car keys, glanced outside at the completely dark sky, and spoke up to keep him: 'It's so late, driving isn't safe; if you have nothing to do tomorrow morning, why not stay the night?'

His mother's words, Xu Yanfeng always obeyed; hearing her, he thought a moment, set down the car keys, and said, 'All right.'

Xu Yanfeng went upstairs to the study and stayed there, not wanting to deal with work, nor interested in study; he sat idly for about ten minutes, took a stack of xuan paper from the drawer, spread it on the desk, began grinding ink, and practiced calligraphy.

Because his mind was not calm, the brushstrokes on the xuan paper were messy; one could see the shape but not the spirit.

Xu Guanshan passed by the study, saw the door ajar, entered without greeting, stood beside the desk and watched for a while; his stern face showed displeasure: 'Haven't you practiced in a long time? Your writing has deteriorated considerably, not even as good as when you were eight or nine.'

As soon as he spoke, Xu Yanfeng's wrist stalled, the brush dropping a meaningless stroke onto the yellowish xuan paper, and his face darkened abruptly.

When he was eight or nine…

Xu Guanshan obviously also recalled that time; he closed his eyes, his powerful aura faded, the sternness on his face softened a bit, and suddenly he became an aged father, his voice weary: 'Are you still blaming me? It's been many years since then.'

Xu Yanfeng stared, wondering if it had really been that many years; why did he remember it so clearly, even the image of his father gazing toward the door from the bed, deeply etched in his mind.

'My mother has come.' Xu Yanfeng placed his brush on the mountain‑shaped brush rest and reminded him in a calm voice.

No sooner had he spoken than Zhong Yinghong knocked on the half‑closed study door, her voice soft as water: 'Did I interrupt your father‑son talk? I just remembered I made fresh wontons this afternoon; are you hungry? Shall I cook some more for a late‑night snack?'

Xu Yanfeng knew he rarely came home; each time he did, his mother always wanted to do something extra for him, even if trivial. He understood a mother's love, and since he hadn't eaten dinner and just soup wouldn't fill him, he went along with her wish and said, 'Then go ahead and cook some.'

Zhong Yinghong indeed looked pleased: 'I won't keep you chatting; I'll go cook now.'

The conversation's atmosphere was disrupted by Zhong Yinghong's sudden arrival; Xu Guanshan said nothing more, sighed, hands behind his back, and left the study.

Less than half an hour later, Zhong Yinghong had finished cooking the wontons, brought them to the study, set them on the table, and urged Xu Yanfeng to eat while hot.

While he was eating the wontons, Zhong Yinghong bent to pick up the xuan paper he had tossed into the wastebasket, spread it on the desk, smoothed its creases with her palm, made out the messy handwriting, studied Xu Yanfeng's expression, and suddenly asked, 'Are you in a relationship?'

Xu Yanfeng was taken aback, choked, and spilled the wonton soup; he quickly grabbed paper to wipe the table, a rare loss of composure in front of his mother.

Zhong Yinghong smiled with her eyes: 'At your age, you certainly should be dating. I'm curious what kind of girl makes my son's heart flutter, to the point of making him anxious and distracted.'

She is more thoughtful than Xu Guanshan, seeing things clearly. Xu Guanshan only noticed that Xu Yanfeng's handwriting was ugly, without examining what he wrote, nor considering using those scrawls to analyze his son's inner state.

Now only mother and son were present, Xu Yanfeng could not help but confide a little: 'She might not meet your standards.'

Zhong Yinghong was delighted that he would actually talk to her about that girl, showing he truly cared. She was open‑minded and perceptive, placing a hand on his shoulder: 'What of it? What matters is that you like her. Don't put too much pressure on yourself; enjoy the relationship—we have no standards.' Perhaps feeling she had said too much, she amended, 'I don't know what your father thinks, but at least I have no standards.'

The phone on the table lit up again with an incoming message.

Zhong Yinghong said, 'I don't know what's happened to you, but speaking from experience, love is naturally sweet and troublesome; one can't forever stay in a honey pot. If there are problems, communicate actively—communication can resolve eighty percent of them.'

Xu Yanfeng asked a sudden question: 'Do you still love my father?'

Zhong Yinghong answered without the slightest hesitation: 'Of course.'

Xu Yanfeng picked up the phone on the table and saw Xia Xi's text: 'I'm waiting for you at Nan Guangchang; if you don't come, I won't leave—you decide for yourself.'

The last time she confessed, she was just like this—half threatening, half pleading—telling him she would wait for him in the square. Now she is even more confident, her threats outweighing her pleas.

Back then he couldn't bear to refuse, agonized for a while but still went; now how could he bring himself to be hard‑hearted?

Zhong Yinghong was still in the study; Xu Yanfeng did not want to waste his mother's effort, hastily ate the remaining wontons, and said, 'I have to go out for a while; I may not come back tonight.'

Zhong Yinghong understood, did not ask for a reason, and gave him a tolerant smile: 'Go on, speak properly; I believe you can resolve it.'