Ding Zhitong felt as if she had stepped into a utopia upon returning to Manhattan. A day in the mountains had passed, yet a thousand years had gone by in the world.
March in Ithaca bore no resemblance to early spring. As she drew back the curtains, a white snowy landscape greeted her eyes. The weather was pleasant, with a high, clear blue sky as pure as ice.
Sunlight streamed onto the bed where Ding Zhitong lay, drifting in and out of sleep. She lingered there until she heard Gan Yang calling her for a meal. Only then did she descend the stairs. At the bottom, she saw the master chef leaning against the stove, plating their brunch for two.
Ding Zhitong was hopeless at housework, neither capable nor fond of it. Yet watching Gan Yang cook always filled her with joy. His meticulous expressions and unhurried movements while washing, chopping, or cooking, combined with the muscles of his arms and the curves of his waist, made her want to help. She approached him from behind, wrapping her arms around him and pressing herself against his back.
Gan Yang, accustomed to her habit, smiled. Feeling her thin arms and slender body, his heart softened. However, his mind quickly recalled his earlier conversation with Director Liu: “Have you told her about our family situation?”
The thought came suddenly—they were perfect for each other, and perhaps she was the one. He should tell her.
“I haven’t told you about my family, have I?” he asked after a moment of silence.
Ding Zhitong didn’t speak, only shaking her head against his back, as if unwilling to let go for even a second.
“This is my mom…” Gan Yang wiped his hands and opened a notebook on the kitchen island, finding a photo to show her.
The picture showed Director Liu crouching by a small stream, her hand touching the water, smiling at the camera.
Ding Zhitong was surprised, both by the sudden topic and by the woman in the photo. She was stylish and gentle, looking quite young. Her features resembled Gan Yang’s, with beautiful long hair draped over one shoulder. She was unlike the typical image of a wealthy middle-aged woman, neither a formidable female boss nor an elegant, shrewd socialite.
“People call her Director Liu now,” Gan Yang explained as he set the food on the table. “But she was born in the countryside and started working after middle school. She began as a machinist in a Hong Kong-owned shoe factory, then studied accounting at night school before starting her own business. When I was in school, she’d ask me to read English to her, even though she couldn’t understand a word. The day I got the call about the American high school admission, I answered terribly, but she was proud of me just for listening.”
Ding Zhitong laughed, saying, “My dad did something similar once.”
Gan Yang chuckled and continued, “In recent years, as the company grew, management profiles required education details. She looked at other CEOs’ backgrounds—all with master’s or bachelor’s degrees—and felt her part-time college diploma wasn’t good enough. She considered getting an MBA that you could buy with money and asked me to help with assignments and papers. I asked her then if that’s why she wanted me to study finance in the first place.”
Though his tone was teasing, Ding Zhitong could hear the good relationship between Gan Yang and his mother, even a hint of admiration.
Sure enough, he added, “But she’s really a wonderful person, and incredibly capable at work. I’ve always felt there’s nothing in this world she can’t accomplish.”
This was different from what Ding Zhitong had assumed. She had taken for granted that he had a rich father, but it turned out to be his mother. Then she suddenly realized Gan Yang had never mentioned his father. She wasn’t sure whether to ask—perhaps he would bring it up, or perhaps not. Maybe everyone had things they preferred not to discuss. Just as she would struggle to answer if asked about that small goal. But was it the same between her and Gan Yang? Had they crossed that boundary where they could share everything?
As she pondered this, Gan Yang, while distributing the utensils, said, “I think… you two would get along…”
“Huh?” Ding Zhitong didn’t understand why she would get along with a highly capable female CEO.
Gan Yang looked at her and explained, “…My graduation ceremony is in May. Director Liu will be there. Would you like to meet her?”
He asked in a casual tone, but Ding Zhitong felt a moment of panic. Isn’t this too fast? she thought. Maybe we shouldn’t! She stammered, her mind in chaos, but seeing the expectation in his eyes, she eventually nodded and said, “Oh, okay.”
Gan Yang found her reaction adorably silly and ruffled her hair. Ding Zhitong, embarrassed and annoyed, jumped up to retaliate, and they nearly started play-fighting.
Next, it should have been time to talk about Gan Kunliang. Gan Yang knew this clearly but ultimately couldn’t bring himself to speak. He simply continued distributing the prepared food onto Ding Zhitong’s plate.
Besides the usual brunch items like scrambled eggs, toast, and vegetable sides, there was a plate of white, cube-shaped food garnished with mint leaves from his garden. The presentation looked somewhat fancy, but not particularly appetizing.
“What’s this?” Ding Zhitong asked.
He replied, “Stir-fried chicken breast with tofu.”
“Is that even a dish?” she wondered, thinking it might be some kind of culinary disaster.
“It’s my invention. Try it,” he said, scooping up a spoonful and feeding it to her.
Her first instinct was to dodge, but not wanting to hurt his feelings, she held still. She then caught the aroma of scallions, ginger, and garlic, with a hint of five-spice powder. The chicken was tender, and the tofu melted in her mouth.
“How is it?” he asked with a smile.
She savored it for a moment, then nodded. “It’s quite good…”
He watched her eat, noticing she had lost weight in the few weeks they hadn’t seen each other. Her skin was almost translucent, with dark circles under her eyes. He found another excuse—next time, he thought. She rarely got a weekend off, and today was his happiest birthday yet.
The next day and a half were spent mostly cooking and eating, with desserts between meals: double-skin milk, eight treasure congee, mango milk pudding. Ding Zhitong felt like she was being fattened up like a pig. She made a G-cup gesture to Gan Yang, saying, “Are you playing some kind of growth simulation game?”
Unexpectedly, Gan Yang was even more direct. He lifted the hem of her sweater and poked his head underneath, saying, “Mm-hmm, let me see how well you’re growing.”
Ding Zhitong was tickled to death, rolling from the sofa onto the carpet, but still couldn’t escape his playful hands.
That weekend, she spent two nights in Ithaca. It wasn’t until Sunday afternoon that Gan Yang drove her back to Manhattan. On the return journey, now alone in the car at night, he found himself lost in thought.
He gazed at the endless highway stretching before him, recalling a small incident from when he was eight years old.
At that time, he was in third grade and had placed third in his class for the midterm exams. He wanted his mother to buy him a Megatron action figure. Back then, she wasn’t yet known as Director Liu; she was just Gan Kunliang’s wife, and people called her Yongjuan.
Yongjuan tried to negotiate, suggesting they wait until the final exams.
He protested loudly: “You promised me! You said there’d be a reward for placing in the top three, and I could choose the prize myself. How can adults break their promises?!”
Speechless, Yongjuan took him to the bank branch and showed him her passbook balance: a total of 606 yuan. She withdrew six 100-yuan notes and laid out the money on the counter, explaining its allocation—100 yuan for his next semester’s tuition, 200 yuan for his grandmother’s living expenses that month, 100 yuan for his grandmother’s New Year red envelope, 100 yuan for his Megatron, leaving just 6 yuan. This was all the cash she had at the time.
Gan Yang remembered crying his eyes out, both from guilt and fear. Shortly after his birth, his father partnered with some uncles to start a factory. Being clever and bold, the business had flourished. He had never known hardship as a child, and this was the only time he realized how close they had come to abject poverty. Or rather, he had always been well-protected, and only this once did his mother let him know the truth.
But Yongjuan didn’t cry with him. Instead, she said, “Look, all these numbers are six. We’re sure to have a smooth year.”
Perhaps it was her calm and confident tone, but the eight-year-old Gan Yang, still sniffling, nodded and believed her.
That year was 1994, and it indeed turned out to be a good year. In January, the State Council issued a document further advancing foreign trade reform. In May, the draft Foreign Trade Law was passed, fully opening up foreign trade for fair competition and significantly reducing tariffs. In the following years, orders doubled annually. Countless migrant workers flooded into their small port town, cramming into rudimentary factories for three shifts a day, working at incredible speeds like machines. Production lines were added one after another, and once started, they seemed never to stop.
Of course, he only learned all this after he grew up. At the time, he just noticed his mother becoming increasingly busy, having him stay at his grandmother’s house while she practically lived at the factory. Later, when they had some money, she followed others’ examples and sent him to study in America.
From that time until now, he hadn’t been able to help her much. He had just obediently spent the money she worked so hard to earn. In her circle of friends, he was considered a good kid who did well in school and stayed out of trouble—not only free from bad habits but not even drinking alcohol. Whenever Director Liu mentioned him to others, she would beam with pride.
Sometimes, he would argue with Director Liu about factory matters or Gan Kunliang.
But after each argument, he would feel that compared to Director Liu, he was useless. What right did he have to tell her what to do?
Meanwhile, back in Manhattan, Ding Zhitong felt as if she had stepped into a utopia, where a day in the mountains had passed, yet a thousand years had gone by in the world.
It was on that Sunday, March 16, 2008, that JPMorgan Chase announced its acquisition of Bear Stearns for $2 per share. In the blink of an eye, the top 5 investment banks were reduced to four.
By Monday, March 17, 2008, L Bank’s stock price also plummeted, losing nearly half its value in a single day. Although it rebounded slightly at closing, the entire market had become as skittish as frightened birds. Everyone felt they might be witnessing history once again.