Mu Jing somewhat regretted bringing Qu Hua’s clothes to the hospital. Qu Hua interpreted her silence as uncertainty about where to find the clothes, so he specifically told her their location. “Please bring them tomorrow at noon. If it’s inconvenient for you, I can go back tonight…”
Before Qu Hua could finish, Mu Jing quickly interjected, “I’ll bring them tonight.”
Qu Hua swallowed what he had been about to say and studied his new wife. “Why are you speaking so urgently?” It seemed as if she feared him coming home tonight and was deliberately advancing the time to deliver the clothes.
“Am I?”
She was.
“Would you like to visit Grandmother?”
“Grandmother isn’t well and needs rest. I won’t disturb her. Please give her my regards.”
She didn’t want to be mistaken for “Yan Yan” again. Though Qu Hua had helped her on the train and actively pursued marriage with her because she resembled Yan Yan, she didn’t want to be constantly reminded of this fact.
Ever since being called “Yan Yan,” Mu Jing had felt uncomfortable around Qu Hua. She wasn’t sure whom he saw when he looked at her face—whether her front view or profile more resembled “Yan Yan,” whether his smiles were for her or because she reminded him of someone else. She could accept that Qu Hua had rushed to marry her for his grandmother’s sake, could accept that emotions played little part in their marriage—she had never considered feelings essential to marriage. But she found it difficult to accept that Qu Hua had married her because she resembled someone else. That made her feel like a screen rather than a person. She once had a classmate who repeatedly watched the same movie just to see her favorite actor—even separated by vast distances, watching the virtual image was enough. She didn’t know how Qu Hua felt seeing her, but she didn’t want to frequently see Qu Hua if she was just serving as a screen in his eyes. Had she known this before the wedding, she might not have agreed to marry him. But now that they were married, she could only focus on the marriage’s benefits.
Mu Jing repeated what she had said earlier—she would bring Qu Hua’s needed clothes tonight.
After work, as soon as Mu Jing arrived at the Qu residence, she rushed to their bedroom and pulled out Qu Hua’s underwear from the drawer. This time she didn’t exercise her clothes-folding skills—she simply pinched the underwear between two fingers, dropped it into the bag, stuffed it into her purse, and hurried downstairs. Before reaching the bottom, she heard Qu Hua’s voice.
He was speaking with Xiao Qin, the household helper.
He had come home after all.
Mu Jing turned and hastily returned to the bedroom. When Qu Hua entered, she was trying to stuff his underwear back into the wardrobe.
He called her name from behind. Mu Jing’s hand froze in mid-air, and under Qu Hua’s gaze, she finally returned his underwear to the wardrobe. It had been neat when she took it out, but now it was crumpled into a ball. With those eyes watching from behind, Mu Jing naturally couldn’t refold the clothes, but leaving them like that seemed wrong too.
“In such a hurry to bring me clothes?”
“I thought you might need them tonight.” She composed herself before turning to face Qu Hua. “I thought you weren’t coming home tonight.”
“I’m not on duty tonight, and Grandmother’s condition is stable. I have no reason not to come home. I didn’t return last night—did you wait long?”
“Taking care of Grandmother is more important.”
Qu Hua smiled at Mu Jing: “You’re truly understanding.”
During dinner, Qu Hua shared good news with the family—Grandmother had agreed to surgery, with him as the lead surgeon.
Having made peace with her situation, Grandmother felt that rather than enduring the pain, she might as well try surgery—even if she died, it would be a release. However, she had one condition: the surgery couldn’t be performed by her grandson. She reasoned that if she died under her grandson’s scalpel, how could he continue living?
Hearing that Qu Hua would be the lead surgeon, his mother frowned. “At Mother’s age, I think conservative treatment would be better.” The surgery wasn’t guaranteed to succeed, and with Grandmother nearly eighty, the risks were significant. Even the most skilled doctors were extremely cautious about operating on family members—emotional involvement made it difficult to remain rational. If others failed, it was just another unsuccessful case, but if he failed, he would carry that psychological burden for life. Hadn’t the lesson with Yan Yan been enough? Back then, Qu Hua hadn’t even been the lead surgeon, just the first assistant.
But as a mother, she didn’t want to probe her son’s old wounds. He was married now, and bringing up the past would do no one any good.
Old Qu agreed with his wife’s opinion. Maintaining his authority at home, he questioned his son like a subordinate: “Is the success rate one hundred percent?”
Qu Hua looked at his father as if he were a fool. “No surgery has a hundred percent success rate. When you were fighting in the war, did you only engage when victory was certain?”
“How dare you compare yourself to me?” Qu Hua wasn’t Old Qu’s ideal son—his ideal son would have been someone who crossed bayonets on the battlefield. His son did take up a blade, but it was a surgical one. Though Old Qu wasn’t highly educated, he knew about Lu Xun, who had abandoned medicine for literature because doctors could only save a limited number of people. His son comparing surgery to warfare was entirely different.
Old Qu was a filial son—he couldn’t bear the risk of his mother’s surgery failing. Most importantly, he didn’t trust his son. In his youth, he had looked down on the elderly; now approaching old age himself, he had elevated experience to an unreachable height and begun looking down on the young. He wanted to find a more reliable doctor. He told Qu Hua he planned to arrange another consultation with Traditional Chinese Medicine experts for the old lady.
Hearing his father’s distrust, Qu Hua smiled and said, “I suppose your wartime victories were just good luck?”
Old Qu was immediately enraged by his son’s insolence.
Just as he was about to explode, Qu Hua asked, “Don’t you think I’m talking nonsense about something I don’t understand?”
Old Qu indeed thought Qu Hua was talking nonsense.
“Different fields are like different mountains—please don’t question my professional expertise.” Grandmother’s surgery was complex; some senior doctors might have more experience, but they might not endure such a long operation time.
The implication was that Old Qu was talking nonsense about surgery. Qu Hua never defied his father except regarding his profession. As a child, he had been known as an exemplary student—never fighting, always ranking first, spending his time at home either reading or making specimens. Old Qu disliked his son’s demeanor, preferring more boisterous children. What was the point of reading all day? Playing with butterflies or tinkering with record players—Old Qu, busy with work, would visit home occasionally and his most frequent action was chasing his son out of the study. Sometimes he had guards take Qu Hua to the training ground for shooting practice. Qu Hua mastered the techniques after just a few tries, his marksmanship impressing Old Qu, who would think proudly, “Indeed my son.” Sometimes after chasing Qu Hua outside, Old Qu would leave him be, and even with complete freedom, Qu Hua wouldn’t cause trouble—he would play tennis until dark. Though there weren’t many tennis players in the city then, there were more than now. He had a regular playing partner, an elderly man with a granddaughter named Yan Yan, who would collect balls for them.
“I don’t care what you think, I won’t let you experiment on your grandmother.”
“I’m finished. Please enjoy your meal.” Qu Hua put down his chopsticks and left the table.
“Who are you giving attitude to?”
Seeing Old Qu about to lose his temper, his wife quickly offered Mu Jing some shrimp. She was indirectly reminding Old Qu that their son had only been married for two days—they shouldn’t make their daughter-in-law witness such discord.
Mu Jing hadn’t expected Qu Hua to confront his father so directly. His father wasn’t just a parent—he represented authority itself.