Wen Dongrong pursed his lips.
His wife, Chen Ru, had said Wen Ying arrived at the hospital with a fever of 39.7°C. Unwell and submitting her paper early, Wen Dongrong had pondered on the drive over that his daughter’s English—the final subject of the entrance exam—likely hadn’t gone well.
How badly, he couldn’t guess until the results were out.
Wen Ying’s mock exams usually scored her over 130 in English. Wen Dongrong’s baseline now was 110—if she hit that, her total score could still qualify for the cross-district entrance to a top Rongcheng high school.
Below 110, and it’d be dicey.
With Wen Ying still in a hospital bed, he’d held off mentioning it. Yet, despite his silence, she brought it up herself.
She seemed in decent spirits, at least.
Wen Dongrong shifted gears, his face stern, as if the 16-year-old in bed wasn’t his daughter but some subordinate who’d blundered.
“Wen Ying, I was just about to bring this up. You fell ill, and your mum and I didn’t notice—that’s on us. But you’re not a little kid anymore. Can’t you tell if you’re unwell? Had you told us sooner, we could’ve taken you to the hospital for an IV after your afternoon exams the past two days. It wouldn’t have worsened to this point or affected today’s English exam… You’re sick now, so I won’t scold you. Reflect on it yourself!”
With that, Wen Dongrong checked his watch and left the ward.
Wen Ying wasn’t in a private room. Another girl, younger than her, lay in the next bed, also hospitalised with flu. She’d probably never seen a dad speak to his daughter so formally—her apple hung mid-bite, forgotten.
Wen Ying stayed calm.
This was the Wen Dongrong she knew.
When Chen Ru returned with a burger from Dicos, she launched into another ten-minute rant.
Wen Ying let it go in one ear and out the other.
At 16, she’d have been wracked with guilt for botching the exam and letting her parents down. But after years of that last lifetime, she didn’t care what Chen Ru or Wen Dongrong said now.
Not caring meant not getting angry.
Dozing off with the IV drip, she overheard the couple planning to tell relatives she’d submitted early due to a flu fever.
Wen Ying knew their game—laying the groundwork.
When the results came out subpar, they’d save face.
“She fell ill right during the exam—what could we do?”
“She tried her best. We didn’t push her too hard—please don’t mention the scores to her, she’ll feel awful!”
Wen Ying shut her eyes.
Even after all these years, she remembered.
Those were the exact lines Chen Ru and Wen Dongrong had spun to outsiders last time.
It wasn’t about sparing her feelings—they couldn’t bear hearing about it themselves. Their pride couldn’t take it. If they truly cared about her, they wouldn’t keep harping on her.
What she couldn’t see through back then was crystal clear now, with 31 years of mental maturity.
Chen Ru and Wen Dongrong—perfectly matched in their control-freak ways and obsession with appearances.
Wen Ying started fake-squinting but genuinely fell asleep. When she woke, it was dark.
Her aunt, Chen Li, sat by the bed.
Wen Ying’s first smile since rebirth bloomed.
“Auntie, when did you get here?”
Chen Li was 30—just Wen Ying’s pre-rebirth age. But while 31-year-old Wen Ying had no plans to marry, 30-year-old Chen Li was already a mum of two.
Wen Ying’s generation faced strict family planning—Chen Ru and Wen Dongrong,不敢 defy it, had only her. Chen Li’s husband, Deng Shangwei, ran a small business, and Chen Li helped out. After their eldest, Deng Jie, they accidentally had another two years later, hiding out to give birth to Deng Hao, who finally got a hukou during the 2000 census.
Unlike Chen Ru’s sharpness, Chen Li was gentle—Wen Ying’s favourite elder.
Seeing her, Wen Ying lit up.
In 2004, her aunt was still so young?
Wen Ying smiled; Chen Li smiled back, reaching to feel her forehead.
“Fever’s down? Your mum called saying you nearly fainted leaving the exam—pretty serious. I drove over as soon as I heard—just got here!”
Wen Ying tilted her head. “Auntie, stay back a bit—don’t catch it.”
Rongcheng was just over an hour’s drive from Wen Ying’s hometown.
In 2004, her family didn’t own a car. Wen Dongrong had a work vehicle, and Chen Ru rode a women’s scooter to work.
Chen Li and Deng Shangwei were better off—Chen Li drove a red Mazda, while Deng Shangwei had an old Santana. In most families, the man got the flash car for status, but in her aunt’s, Chen Li had the good one, and Deng Shangwei the clunker. Wen Ying knew her mum, Chen Ru, looked down on Deng Shangwei, a businessman with cash but no prestige. Yet, in doting on his wife, he outshone Wen Dongrong by miles.
Wen Dongrong had a work car but wouldn’t dream of driving his wife or daughter—gossip would kill him.
Wen Ying knew her family had savings now—enough for a car—but Wen Dongrong, at a critical promotion stage, didn’t want attention, so he’d refused.
The money sat in the bank, earning less interest than in the ‘90s. On Chen Li’s advice, Chen Ru had invested it in a Rongcheng property.
In 2004, no “purchase limits” existed—cash was king!
Looking back, skipping the car for a house had accidentally built Chen Ru and Wen Dongrong’s wealth.
Chen Li had defied her parents to marry Deng Shangwei, and he hadn’t let her down. In modern terms, he’d pampered her into an enviable state. At 30, Chen Li was a radiant young wife, ripe as a peach—her comfy life plain to see. If not for what came later, they might’ve grown old together happily.
Thinking of Deng Shangwei, Wen Ying’s eyes flickered toward the door. “Auntie, just you? What about Jie and Hao—where’s Uncle?”
Chen Li smiled patiently. “You’re a bit fever-muddled. It’s Monday—you’ve got your exam, but primary schools in Rongcheng aren’t off. Your uncle’s tied up with the company. Don’t be cross—I told him before I left he’s got to visit tomorrow, no excuses.”
