The printing factory manager was baffled, marveling at how a woman with such poise could argue so fiercely.
Though she didn’t use a single curse word, her words left others mortified.
Zou Weijun couldn’t help but laugh as she recounted it.
“The workshop director’s face—utter disbelief after I chewed him out. He thought I was soft-spoken, a newbie in the publishing department, easy to fool!”
Caught up in the moment, Zou Weijun spilled the whole argument.
Xie Qian’s excitement was beyond words.
Encouraging his mom to work was the right call.
She hadn’t been this radiant in ages.
Forget arguing with strangers—during her worst depressive episode, Zou Weijun didn’t care about what she ate, had no preferences, and avoided talking to anyone.
Now, she was squabbling with factory staff!
The argument was just the surface. If she didn’t care about her job, she wouldn’t bother fighting over work mistakes. Deep down, Zou Weijun had found something beyond Xie Jinghu to care about.
Wen Ying noticed her change too.
At their first meeting, though impeccably dressed and refined, Zou Weijun’s eyes were hollow, like a perfect mannequin—shell without soul.
Only matters involving Xie Qian stirred slight emotion.
When Wen Ying shared her “nightmare,” Zou Weijun’s feelings peaked.
Now, at their second meeting, something new filled her shell.
Seeing Xie Qian and Wen Ying staring, Zou Weijun grew sheepish. Arguing wasn’t praiseworthy—why was she bragging to kids?
“I got carried away. Looking back, if I’d stayed calm and communicated from the start, it would’ve been resolved faster. Don’t follow my example.”
Arguing solved nothing.
How many fights had she had with Xie Jinghu?
Far from resolving issues, their conflicts only deepened.
Thinking of Xie Jinghu, Zou Weijun’s mood plummeted, her enthusiasm fading.
Wen Ying knew depression brought rapid mood swings; Zou Weijun’s sudden silence was normal. Pretending not to notice, Wen Ying grinned, “Arguing’s not great, but sometimes it’s efficient communication. I never used to fight with my parents—they ignored my opinions. After the entrance exam this year, I pushed back, argued with them. We were all upset then, but now we’re closer than before.”
Wen Ying wasn’t lying.
In her past life, she didn’t dare argue or fight for herself, so Chen Ru and Wen Dongrong imposed strict control.
Her independence awakened in college, away from their watch. When she rejected their plan for her to return home and take a civil service job after graduation, they couldn’t accept it.
Now, post-exam, Wen Ying “awakened” earlier. Chen Ru and Wen Dongrong initially saw it as rebellion, trying to rein her in. After some turmoil, they had to accept reality: their docile daughter had changed. Either adapt to the new Wen Ying and find a new family dynamic, or live in constant discord.
Wen Ying’s self-exposure distracted Zou Weijun.
“You argue with your parents?”
With her round face and warm smile, Wen Ying seemed so gentle.
Zou Weijun thought if she had a daughter, she’d be like Wen Ying.
Not stunning, but a soft, cute round face—adorable!
Yet Wen Ying wasn’t soft. She was a Rongcheng girl, like a local chili pepper—deceptively ornamental but fiery when bitten.
“Of course! Sometimes I win, sometimes they do. Fifty-fifty, I’d say!”
Wen Ying’s modesty made Zou Weijun laugh.
She assumed Wen Ying’s “arguing” was lighthearted, picturing open-minded parents bonding with their kid. What a great family vibe.
Xie Qian rarely made demands growing up, unbothered by material things, wearing whatever was provided… Had he ever felt wronged but stayed silent? Zou Weijun’s heart ached. Once someone pointed it out, overlooked details flooded back.
“Aunt Zou, besides proofreading samples, what else do you do at the publishing department?”
Wen Ying’s questions kept coming, leaving Zou Weijun no time to drift.
Xie Qian added, “Wen Ying writes for magazines in her spare time. She’s genuinely curious about publishing.”
Zou Weijun brightened, “You have that hobby? I wrote for magazines when I was young—essays and modern poetry were big back then.”
Had she not married early, she might’ve become a writer or poet.
Looking back, those youthful days were so carefree!
Zou Weijun sat beside Wen Ying, sharing her recent work: a science book series tied to the provincial education department, covering natural sciences and teen physical and mental health. Her involvement stemmed from having a sixteen-year-old son.
The series targeted middle schoolers.
“Kids your age are curious about everything. The more teachers and parents forbid something, the more you want to try it secretly. So, why not put some issues out in the open?”
Zou Weijun believed the books held real value.
They might not outsell youth fiction, but they carried social responsibility. State-owned publishers weren’t solely profit-driven.
She asked Wen Ying and Xie Qian, “What kind of science books would you want to read?”
Though not chasing sales, with so much effort invested, it’d be better if kids flipped through them rather than letting them gather dust.
Wen Ying hesitated.
Xie Qian glanced at her, “My mom’s not fake—she really wants input. We’re the target readers. Personally, I don’t like preachy books. Things exist for a reason. The issues we face, our parents did too. More understanding beats blanket rejection.”
Early romance was bad.
Most teens can’t handle it, and it affects studies.
But strict bans stop it? No—kids go underground, playing spy games with teachers and parents.
Zou Weijun nodded thoughtfully.
Fun trumps preaching.
Great content in a dull format wouldn’t attract students.
Wen Ying considered: if Zou Weijun wanted career fulfillment to shift her focus, she needed to outshine others and rise fast in the publishing department.
“Xie Qian’s right—content decides if I’ll finish a book. But what makes me pick one up? Marketing!”
