Fang Muyang had the movers take his loft bed to the landlord’s storage room.

“What will we sleep on after it’s gone?” Fei Ni asked softly.

“Once we’re done moving, I’ll take you to the furniture store to buy a new bed. This one works fine for one person, but it’s too inconvenient for two.”

Fei Ni’s silence signaled agreement. While the loft bed saved space, it was indeed inconvenient.

Everything was moved to the Fang family home, not just furniture but even their potted plants. Their bedroom was reasonably sized, fitting the wardrobe, desk, and sewing machine, with space left for a large bed. The piano was placed in the living room.

Fang’s parents knew their wayward son disliked playing piano, so the instrument must belong to their daughter-in-law.

Teacher Mu asked Fei Ni who had taught her to play, and Fei Ni knew her mother-in-law wasn’t asking about her school music teacher. She smiled and said she just played casually, having learned from her elementary school music teacher—purely amateur. Unlike Fang Muyang, who had learned violin from an orchestra’s concertmaster.

Old Fang said, “Your mother plays the piano well. She can teach you in the future.”

Old Fang offered the movers some soda and said to his son, “The soda isn’t even cold. If we had a refrigerator, it would be much more convenient.” The living room still lacked a television. Old Fang could get TV purchase tickets if he was willing to lower himself to ask for favors. But he refused to humble himself asking for a television quota. Thus, televisions, refrigerators, and the latest stereo systems remained out of reach.

Unable to buy the appliances he wanted without tickets, he spent his money on calligraphy and paintings instead. Everything he bought was kept in the study. Unable to contain his desire to show off, as soon as the movers left, without even giving his son and daughter-in-law time to settle in, he called them to his study and brought out Shi Tao’s album of landscape paintings for them to see. Old Fang typically despised linking art with money, but feeling he’d gotten such a good deal, he asked them to guess the price.

Fang Muyang deliberately quoted a high price, which pleased Old Fang, who smiled without speaking. In the past, whenever Old Fang received his salary, he would hunt for calligraphy and paintings. His wayward son’s only redeeming quality was that despite often selling household items at the consignment shop, he never touched the artwork. These pieces hadn’t been converted into his younger son’s oil paints, snacks, and roller skates, yet they were still gone—proving that material possessions couldn’t be relied upon. Last year, Old Fang had maintained a detached view of such possessions, but this year, with money and the means to be tempted, he couldn’t resist buying when he saw something he liked. Years of practice had taught him to haggle, something he’d previously been too embarrassed to do. He showed his son another hanging scroll. Though his wayward son was poor at traditional Chinese painting, he had a good eye for appreciation. With no one else to discuss art with, Old Fang turned to his son for conversation.

He gave Fei Ni a flower-and-bird painting to give to her parents, to replace his wayward son’s “Five Bats at the Door.”

Unexpectedly, Fang Muyang had his eye on Zhu Da’s landscape painting for his in-laws. “Dad, it wouldn’t look right to replace just one piece—why not change both and give them this one too?”

Hearing his wayward son’s suggestion, Old Fang felt a stab of pain, wondering how he’d raised such a spendthrift. But in front of his daughter-in-law, he maintained his smile while thinking of how to refuse.

Fei Ni, knowing of Zhu Da, felt the gift was too valuable and said, “Please keep this painting. Their living room doesn’t need more paintings—what it lacks is calligraphy. My parents are still waiting for your piece.”

Old Fang remembered he had indeed promised his in-laws a piece of calligraphy. Thanks to his daughter-in-law’s reminder, the painting was saved. He was touched that his daughter-in-law had chosen his calligraphy over Zhu Da’s painting.

He asked Fei Ni to wait, as he currently lacked good paper and ink. He would write the piece once he acquired satisfactory materials, have it mounted, and then send it to his in-laws.

Old Fang then showed his son and daughter-in-law his collection of rare books, anticipating their lack of understanding. Showing them was like playing zither to a cow, but having cows for an audience was better than none. Fei Ni understood a bit—over the years, she had been starved for reading material, taking whatever books she could find at the waste collection station, not being picky at all. Though her classical Chinese was poor, she even read rare book catalogs when she found them.

Fei Ni’s modest knowledge was enough to surprise Old Fang. He knew her generation’s middle school education was quite diluted, so her understanding of textual criticism was unexpected. Having found an appreciative audience, Old Fang enthusiastically digressed into various topics, regardless of whether his wayward son was interested.

Fang Muyang knew his old man had been used to being ignored for years and wouldn’t stop once given a chance to express himself. He sat in a chair, flipping through his father’s landscape painting album. Since Fei Ni wanted to attend university, having someone eager to tutor her at home was a good thing.

They hadn’t hired a housekeeper yet. Old Fang usually either ate at small restaurants or had the food Teacher Mu brought from the cafeteria. When dining alone, he mostly ordered just a bowl of noodles, occasionally one dish, never more—even if he could eat more, he felt embarrassed, considering two dishes too extravagant for one person.

Now with his son and daughter-in-law present, they could order more dishes at restaurants. Old Fang insisted on treating them this time. He first handed the menu to his wife, who passed it to their daughter-in-law, who tried to return it to her in-laws. During this polite exchange, Fang Muyang simply snatched the menu.

Fang Muyang smiled, “If we keep being so polite, will we ever eat? Let me decide, and you can speak up if you’re not satisfied.”

Without asking their preferences, he directly ordered two dishes for each person based on their tastes, plus a soup. Old Fang was touched that despite their years apart, his wayward son still remembered what he and his wife liked to eat.