Conditions in the Inner Mongolia Corps had always been harsh. The two children had never once tasted pork belly since the day they were born. Now, with a piece finally in their mouths, they were utterly content. Watching Chen Lu seethe with frustration only made Gu Shunhua feel more at ease—her own braised pork tasted all the better for it.
Everyone had a few bites of the braised pork and felt satisfied. They followed it with stir-fried tofu crumble, which helped balance out the richness and was even more enjoyable in contrast. Everyone, that is, except for Chen Lu. She’d failed to snatch any before Gu Shunhua got her share, and then she had to watch as Chen Cuiyue prioritized feeding the two children. It left her feeling sulky and off-kilter. And after that… well, there was nothing after that.
Seven adults and two children—just two catties of braised pork in total. Some of the fat would’ve rendered off during cooking, and they’d even given half a bowl to Granny Tong. How much could possibly have been left? In truth, all Chen Lu had managed to get were some scraps. She ended up scooping up bits of potato from the broth and nibbling on some tofu crumble.
The potatoes weren’t bad, of course. The tofu crumble was a decent dish too. But none of it could compare to the sheer satisfaction of biting into a thick chunk of braised pork belly.
She wasn’t content. Her stomach might have been full, but her mouth still craved more. It just didn’t feel like enough.
Back in her previous life, she’d lived in the 21st century—when had she ever lacked for food? At the time, she could never understand why anyone would enjoy fatty pork belly. It just seemed greasy and unappetizing. She even went through a phase of thinking vegetarianism was the way to go.
But now, stranded inside a novel, even as the supposed female lead, her body was starved for fat and protein. And once you were lacking in those, you realized just how instinctive the human craving for meat and fat really was. People who’d always lived with nutritional excess could never comprehend what true hunger felt like.
She wanted meat. Real meat. The kind that quivered with fat and came in thick, juicy chunks. That was the real satisfaction. That was worth it.
And now, when there was finally braised pork belly on the table, she couldn’t eat to her heart’s content. That made it all the more unbearable.
What was worse, Chen Cuiyue—who had always doted on her—hadn’t prioritized her this time. That stung even more.
She’d essentially written a cheat code into her own storyline: Chen Cuiyue was supposed to treat her like the center of the universe, above all else. How could she not set aside pork belly for her?
Chen Lu simply couldn’t understand it.
Chen Cuiyue was tidying up, draining the just-washed bowls and placing them neatly into the cupboard. When she looked up, she happened to catch Chen Lu staring fixedly at the iron pot next to the coal stove.
The look on her face—it was downright greedy.
Chen Cuiyue raised an eyebrow, puzzled. She’s not a little child anymore. Why is she still this gluttonous?
Still, she said, “What’s wrong? Didn’t eat enough? Everyone had a few pieces. That should’ve been plenty. If you’re still hungry, have some roasted mantou slices.”
That only made Chen Lu feel worse. What does she mean everyone had a few pieces? She’d moved too slowly and barely gotten any!
She considered telling Chen Cuiyue the truth—after all, this was someone who was supposed to care for her wholeheartedly. But then she thought better of it. The pork was already gone; bringing it up now would only make her feel worse for nothing.
Meanwhile, Chen Yaotang was chatting idly with Gu Quanfu.
Having eaten his fill, Chen Yaotang was feeling quite pleased with himself. He lounged in an old high-backed chair, legs crossed, and casually probed, “Brother-in-law, has the restaurant said anything about you lately?”
Gu Quanfu was sipping tea from a thick-handled mug, slow and steady. He replied offhandedly, “About what?”
With narrowed eyes and a grin, Chen Yaotang looked him up and down. “Brother-in-law, you’re a man of real ability—true talent. It’s a waste to have you hauling vegetables. Surely the organization should’ve made some kind of arrangement for you by now?”
There was a reason he asked.
Back in the day, Gu Quanfu had manned the kitchen, and there was no shortage of little perks. Occasionally, he’d bring home leftovers or ingredients. Chen Yaotang had benefited plenty from that. But ever since Gu was labeled part of the wrong faction and reassigned to menial work, those perks had disappeared.
Of course Gu Quanfu knew what his brother-in-law was getting at. He let out a dry chuckle. “Things don’t work like that. I’m getting old. Even if there were some opportunity, it wouldn’t fall to me.”
What he didn’t mention was that just a few days ago, the manager had pulled him aside to talk. The implication was clear—they were watching him, saw how cautiously he’d handled himself over the years, and appreciated that he’d kept his head down. For now, though, the future remained uncertain. He wasn’t about to show his cards so easily.
Too much had happened in the past few years—waves of upheaval, one after another. Who could say what would come next?
Hearing this, Chen Yaotang was visibly disappointed. He chuckled awkwardly to cover it up and let the matter drop.
Gu Shunhua, holding the child in her arms, had already been about to leave the room. But hearing this, she gave a cold snort inwardly. So the book really had it right!
In the novel, this uncle of hers was quite the character—good at scheming, ambitious. A few years into the reforms, he supposedly met a major entrepreneur named Luo Minghao. Luo funded him, and the two opened a restaurant. They wanted a head chef and hoped to recruit her father. But when her father declined, they had to hire someone else.
Later, this uncle supposedly developed the “Eight Imperial Treasures Banquet,” a dish her father claimed as his own culinary masterpiece. When he found out, he was so furious he nearly jumped out of his skin. “That’s my signature dish!” he had yelled, only to be driven out by the restaurant staff.
—That’s how it went in the book.
But in reality? Her uncle was just an old loafer, wandering the alleys with a birdcage in hand, aimless and idle. Open a restaurant? As if.
As for Luo Minghao, the man Chen Yaotang claimed to know, he was a smooth-talker in business circles, someone who knew how to flatter people to their faces and speak sweet nonsense to whoever was listening. But his character? Not worth a cent. And this was what passed for a great entrepreneur?
Back when she first read that part of the story, Gu Shunhua had already found it hard to believe—none of it aligned with reality. But now, hearing her uncle speak, everything clicked into place. The novel hadn’t invented the events – it had simply whitewashed them, glossed over the truth, polishing both Chen Yaotang and Luo Minghao beyond recognition. What really happened must’ve been something else entirely.
From where she stood, the truth was likely this: her good-for-nothing uncle, a streetwise rascal, had swindled her father out of the “Eight Imperial Treasures Banquet,” used it as a gimmick to start a restaurant with Luo Minghao, and then stabbed her father in the back.
But really—had either of them ever even seen the real Eight Imperial Treasures Banquet? Could they actually cook? And those so-called “family recipes” that showed up later in the book—where did those come from?
Watching Chen Yaotang today, Gu Shunhua could more or less piece it together: her uncle must have tricked her father out of his culinary secrets, then used them to open a restaurant, turning them into a marketing gimmick—and later even schemed against her father, stabbing him in the back for good measure.
Otherwise, with her father’s cautious nature, how could he ever have gotten involved with someone like Chen Yaotang?
The thought made her scoff aloud.
That novel… what a load of absolute garbage. Who on earth had written such nonsense? The author must have been kicked in the head by a donkey. Whitewashed lies, twisted logic—twisting right into wrong, wrong into right… Why did every plotline bend over backward to favor Chen Lu’s entire family?
If that author were standing in front of her now, she’d slap them across the face without hesitation.
After Gu Shunhua successfully registered her household registration (hukou), word spread quickly through the shared courtyard compound. The old neighbors, surprised at first, were naturally delighted. After all, they’d watched her grow up—now she had come back safe and sound, children in tow. It was a joyful occasion. Who wouldn’t be happy for her?
But Qiao Xiuya was so furious her chest hurt. She was completely baffled. How on earth did that girl manage to register her hukou? Hadn’t her Jianping gone to talk to Director Chen? Hadn’t he explained the situation clearly—that they absolutely couldn’t allow the children to be registered?
Just yesterday, Jianping had returned home covered in dog feces. She’d been livid at the time, but still asked how things had gone. Jianping had mumbled that he’d given the boots to the man.
Once she heard that, she’d been reassured.
These days, people were still honest. No one would take a bribe and not do the job. Besides, not approving the registration was perfectly normal—if they had approved it, that would’ve been strange.
So how, in just a day or two, had Gu Shunhua managed to get her hukou registered after all?
When Gu Shunhua managed to get her hukou registered, Qiao Xiuya was left seething—what was she supposed to tell Manager Huang now? She’d practically lost a promised pot of winter melon soup for nothing!
Furious, she stormed back into the house, only to find her son Su Jianping squatting on the floor, polishing his three-piece leather shoes. The sight of those shoes immediately reminded her of the work-issue boots—those leather ones he had given away—and her temper flared all over again.
“What on earth happened? Did you give those boots to Director Sun or not? How did it fall through? How did she manage to get her hukou registered? She registered herself and the kids—how am I supposed to follow through with that marriage proposal now?”
She’d promised a fresh-faced young girl, and now she’d have to present a divorced woman with two children in tow? How could she show her face after this?
Su Jianping had long expected his mother to find out. He’d been vague on purpose, hoping he might still get away with it if things fell through. But hearing her now, it was clear—Gu Shunhua had succeeded in registering her household. That left him both frustrated and resigned.
“It all fell apart!” he snapped.
“What do you mean, fell apart? Didn’t you say the guy took the boots?” Qiao Xiuya asked, her voice rising.
Su Jianping, exasperated, flung his freshly polished shoe to the floor. “I went to deliver them, but my timing was off—I ran right into Gu Shunhua.”
He proceeded to explain how he’d encountered her and how she had cleverly taken advantage of the situation.
Qiao Xiuya listened, dumbfounded. It took her a good while to make sense of it all.
And when she finally did, she burst out, “You let her play you like that? Are you stupid?”
Su Jianping, already irritated, snapped back, “What else was I supposed to do? She caught me red-handed! If I hadn’t gone along with it, she’d have exposed everything. What was I supposed to do then—let her blow up the whole thing? You think I wouldn’t be humiliated?”
Qiao Xiuya hesitated. “Well… couldn’t you have thought of something else?”
Su Jianping was about to explode, but he kept his voice low—he didn’t want the neighbors overhearing. “If there was another way, don’t you think I would’ve tried it already? She’s already got the hukou—what do you want me to do now?”
Qiao Xiuya couldn’t argue with that. She was angry, yes, but more than anything, she felt humiliated. She’d always had the upper hand in life—how had she let Gu Shunhua pull one over on her like this? It felt like she’d just swallowed a whole chicken neck bone sideways—nothing about it sat right.
And just then, the smell of braised pork drifted out from the Gu family home. The scent was rich and mouthwatering.
She stomped her foot. “Fine! But I’ll remember this. I’m not done with that family!”
Meanwhile, Gu Shunhua carried the two children into the outer room. The night was calm—no wind, no snow. After a meal of braised pork, steamed mantou, and hot soup, her whole body felt warm and relaxed.
She had already filled a hot water bottle and tucked it into the bedding. Now, with a soft, warm child nestled on either side, she climbed into bed. Her whole being finally felt at ease.
The two little ones were still full of energy, chattering away with playful, childlike enthusiasm.
Gu Shunhua smiled. “Did you like the braised pork?”
Both children chimed in, “Yes!”
She went on, “Your grandpa said tomorrow he’ll buy ribs to stew for you. The meat ticket’s already been requested.”
Of course, she hadn’t mentioned this in front of Chen Yaotang’s family—clearly, they wouldn’t be invited to share the meal.
The mention of ribs made the children beam with joy. They wrapped their arms around her and laughed, eyes bright with contentment.
Gu Shunhua asked if they wanted to play with the courtyard children. They nodded eagerly, saying the other kids were nice to them.
That reassured her. It was good for them to make friends and feel welcome—it would help their emotional well-being.
She decided that tomorrow she’d ask Granny Tong to keep an eye on them while they played in the courtyard. Just someone nearby in case anything happened.
As for her, she planned to visit the Educated Youth Office, and afterward, stop by the Housing Administration.
She was a returned educated youth—having spent eight years in border reclamation. According to policy, those years should count as formal work experience. Now that she was back in the city, the organization was supposed to help with her resettlement.
She knew it wouldn’t be easy. Too many people had returned at once. Jobs were hard to come by. But even if it meant tough work and meager pay, Gu Shunhua was determined to earn her own living.
The next day at noon, Gu Quanfu really did bring home a bag of pork ribs. Chen Cuiyue was overjoyed at the sight, but before she could say anything, Gu Quanfu looked at her and said, “It’s just a few catties of ribs. Once they’re stewed, there won’t be much left. If you call your relatives over again, our own kids won’t get more than a bite.”
That made Chen Cuiyue hesitate. She thought back to the way Chen Lu had stared at the pot the night before, her eyes practically glued to it.
She still didn’t understand. She had gotten the biggest chunk of braised pork—how could she still be so greedy? And if a child had such an appetite, who could possibly afford to keep up with it?
She had always believed Chen Lu was a good, well-mannered child. But now—
She tried to think it through, but her mind went blank. A heavy, uneasy feeling settled over her like deflated air. She felt deeply uncomfortable.
Gu Quanfu said, “Now that Shunhua’s back, I’ve been thinking a lot. I really don’t understand how she ended up with such a hard life, with so much suffering. So many things from the past—when I think about them now, it all feels blurry, like I’ve forgotten why it even happened. Back then, when you told her to go to the countryside, why didn’t I stop you? I don’t even know what I was thinking.”
Hearing this, Chen Cuiyue was startled. His words hit her like a red-hot poker straight to the heart. She instinctively blurted out, “What are you talking about? Isn’t everything fine now? Chen Lu turned out so well—kind-hearted and lovely. Isn’t that how it should be?”
Gu Quanfu stared at her, stunned. After a long pause, he finally said, “What the hell are you talking about? Fine? Fine how? Did you see her last night? Even when a little kid was eating, her eyes were fixed on the pot like she couldn’t stand it!”
Chen Cuiyue opened her mouth, then shut it again. Then opened it once more. Her mind felt fuzzy. What he said made sense. That kind of behavior wasn’t right. A child that small—why should an adult be competing with them?
But… but this was Chen Lu. Wasn’t Chen Lu always the one who was right? Wasn’t she the good one?
Gu Quanfu shot her a glance, clearly irritated.
He was usually mild-tempered. But after last night, when Chen Yaotang had started poking around about his job, it had really left a bad taste in his mouth.
So he said flatly, “That’s settled. We’ll eat the ribs ourselves. Don’t invite your relatives this time.”
Chen Cuiyue was stunned, eyes wide, but in the end, she said nothing. Still, she couldn’t shake the discomfort. She didn’t even understand why—she just always felt the urge to be good to Chen Lu. The thought of not giving her any ribs made her feel terrible, as if something were twisting inside her.
At last, she sighed. “Forget it. Do as you like. I can’t deal with it. I feel awful… no strength left in me…”
With that, she simply lay down on the bed.
When Gu Yuehua came out humming a tune, he immediately spotted his mother lying down. “Mom? What’s wrong? Are you sick?”
Gu Quanfu responded irritably, “Her body’s fine—her heart’s sick. Don’t worry about her.”
Gu Yuehua was even more confused. “What happened?”
“I’m fine,” Chen Cuiyue muttered. “Just needed to lie down a bit.”
Gu Yuehua shrugged and, seeing it didn’t seem serious—no fever or anything—left it alone. Soon after, Gu Shunhua arrived with the children. Naturally, she was surprised too, asked a few questions, but got the same answer—“I’m fine”—and let it go.
By then, the ribs were fully stewed. When the lid was lifted, the rich aroma rose with the steam—it smelled heavenly.
“Dad,” Gu Shunhua said, “let’s take a couple pieces over to Granny Tong.”
Gu Quanfu nodded. “Alright, go ahead.”
Granny Tong was a good woman. Back during the political campaigns, Gu Quanfu had nearly gotten into trouble. Granny Tong, though suffering herself at the time, had still helped cover for him. He’d never forgotten that favor.
Gu Shunhua was pleased. As a child, she had loved carrying bowls of food over to Granny Tong. Even then, perhaps she’d already understood it was a good deed—one that would be remembered.
Granny Tong was old-school, with her own sense of propriety. Whenever you brought her food, the bowl never returned empty—she always tucked some goodies into it before handing it back.
She used to bring those treats home, divide them between her brothers, and everyone would be happy.
Now that she was grown, she no longer harbored such childish thoughts. But bringing ribs to Granny Tong still felt like a sweet task.
She set aside a few pieces and carried them over. Granny Tong was feeding water to her old cat. When she saw Gu Shunhua, she smiled warmly and said, “Come in, sit! My old bones are truly blessed—your dad’s cooking is out of this world!”
As she spoke, the old cat wagged its tail, licking at the water with its little tongue.
Gu Shunhua’s eyes drifted to the bowl the cat was drinking from. It was an old, slightly chipped porcelain bowl, crusted with the remnants of past meals. From her earliest memories, this cat had always drunk from that same bowl.
In the book, there was a scene later on that mentioned this bowl—it turned out to be an antique, supposedly once used in the imperial palace. It was said to be worth a considerable sum. In the story, Chen Lu recognized the bowl, offered Granny Tong some money, and tried to buy it. Granny Tong refused.
Later, something happened to Granny Tong—though the book never explained what—and she ended up in urgent need of money. Eventually, she sold the bowl to Chen Lu for 140 yuan.
Chen Lu then flipped it to a Hong Kong businessman for 13,000 yuan.
Thirteen thousand! In today’s terms, that was a fortune beyond imagination.
Gu Shunhua wanted to warn Granny Tong to put the porcelain away—but then thought better of it. Surely Granny Tong knew. She was, after all, from a noble family—a former princess of a princely household. Even after all she’d been through, it wasn’t surprising she had hidden treasures. Maybe keeping the bowl out for the cat was her way of throwing people off the scent.
If she brought it up, it might just raise suspicion.
Better, then, to live her life well and be prepared. That way, if something happened, she could help Granny Tong herself—and stop Chen Lu from swooping in to take advantage.
With that in mind, she sat for a bit and chatted casually. When she shared her current plans, Granny Tong readily agreed: “Doesn’t matter if it’s good or bad—what matters is having work.”
Shunhua mentioned leaving the kids in her care during the day, and Granny Tong didn’t hesitate to say yes.
As she was heading out, Granny Tong handed her a bowl of chestnut porridge. “This was from your Grandpa Pan—he brought it for me last time. Go on, take it!”
Knowing Granny Tong’s temperament, Gu Shunhua didn’t refuse. She smiled and said, “Grandpa Pan really looks out for you—he’s so kind.”
Old Master Pan did have a bit of history. His father had once worked in the imperial palace as an inkstone carver. After the Qing dynasty fell, he drifted into a brush shop in Liulichang, repairing and engraving inkstones. Master Pan had inherited his father’s craft and now worked in the same shop. His life was comfortable.
He was a stubborn man, with a proud streak a mile wide. No one could control him. Well into his senior years, he’d never married. Spent his days strolling with a birdcage, practicing boxing at Anmen Square—living well on his own terms.
In the compound, he had a reputation. Back when trouble came knocking, he was the one who stepped up. Over time, people started calling him “Master Pan”—an unofficial title, but one he wore well.
There had even been talk, once upon a time, of him and Granny Tong becoming something more—he was unmarried, she was widowed—but nothing ever came of it. And eventually, people stopped talking.
When Shunhua brought it up, Granny Tong scolded playfully, “Watch your mouth, or I won’t let you in next time!”
Shunhua laughed and begged for mercy, then brought the porridge home. It was a classic Beijing treat—made from chestnut powder, red date powder, and lotus root flour. Soft, fragrant, and gently sweet, it left a delicate chestnut aroma lingering on the tongue.
She set it aside, then served up portions for Gu Yuehua and the children. Before long, it was time to eat.
The ribs Gu Quanfu had stewed were tender and flavorful—the meat nearly melted off the bone. The children’s cheeks puffed out as they ate, shouting between bites, “So good! So tasty!”
Gu Shunhua couldn’t help turning to her mother. “Mom, come eat with us.”
Chen Cuiyue sighed and finally got up. “I must be cursed. Just when we finally get some ribs in the house, I end up with a pounding headache.”
Still, even as she grumbled, she ate. The aroma was just too tempting to resist.
After the meal, Gu Shunhua explained a few things to the children, then walked them over to Granny Tong’s place. Only then did she put on her hat and head out.
First stop: the Housing Administration Office.
She explained her situation: “I’ve returned to the capital with two young children. We’re all crammed into my parents’ home—it’s impossible to keep living like this.”
The housing official sighed. “There’s nothing we can do right now. So many educated youth have come back, and none of them have homes. Even if we wanted to help, where would we find housing?”
Shunhua hadn’t really expected them to assign her a unit. That was a fantasy. But she had another plan.
“I’m living in a shed in the courtyard with two children. The other night’s snowfall nearly froze our toes off. Comrade, even if you can’t assign me a home, can you help with this emergency?”
The official frowned. “You can’t stay with your family?”
“My elder brother lives there, and his wife’s returning soon. My younger brother is about to get married. We have only twelve square meters total.”
Hearing that, the official understood. This was the reality. So many young people had gone to the countryside as teens—now they were back, in their twenties, ready to marry. There weren’t enough jobs or homes for them all. It was common for three generations to squeeze into one room.
He sighed. “Comrade, this is just how things are. You’ll have to manage the best you can.”
At that, Gu Shunhua’s eyes reddened. “Comrade, I can endure it—but my kids are only two years old. I cover them with three quilts at night, and they still cry from the cold.”
The official—a man in his forties, old-fashioned—was at a loss seeing her tears. “Well… what do you want me to do?”
“I’d like permission to build a small room in the courtyard,” she said. “Just six or seven square meters—enough for me and the children. I’ll handle all the materials and labor. All I need is for you not to tear it down afterward.”
The official blinked. “Build a house? It’s not that simple. Where will you get materials? Where’s the space? Building a house isn’t just words—it takes real planning.”
But Shunhua had already thought it through.
Back then, it was still common for families to expand their living space however they could. If you had too many people in one home, what else could you do—hang them on the wall? Quietly expanding into the yard was just how things worked. Later on, even unauthorized structures were unofficially recognized. Some were even compensated during demolitions.
Shunhua wasn’t banking on future payouts. She just wanted a roof of her own now—something for her and the children. A space they could call home.
Even if it was tiny, it would still be theirs. A safe haven from wind and snow.
If Ren Jingnian ever soared high, changed his mind, or got rich—she and the children wouldn’t need to cling to him.
The official thought it over. “We’re not heartless, but you’ve got to understand—there are a lot of households in that courtyard. If you build something and others object, it could get messy.”
That sounded like a soft yes.
Shunhua smiled. “Then how about this—I’ll write a petition to build a small room, no more than eight square meters. If every household in the courtyard signs their agreement, can you at least give it a look and let us go ahead, even without an official stamp?”
The official consulted the back office, then returned. “If the courtyard agrees, we won’t interfere. But we can’t stamp anything. There’s no precedent.”
Fair enough. He wasn’t easily fooled—getting a stamp would’ve made it official, and he wasn’t about to take that risk.
“Then I’ll gather signatures,” she said. “Once I have them, I’ll show you. If no one objects, we’ll start. No stamp needed.”
The official nodded repeatedly. “In that case, we’ve got no problem at all.”
Hearing that, Shunhua finally felt at ease.
She had a plan. A way forward.
Author’s Note:
At this time, real estate was divided into several types. For example, the large compound of the heroine’s house was actually a house from the Housing Authority. This kind of house only allowed people to live in it, and it was not allowed to be sold. However, even so, when the demolition came, it was still a high compensation for a few houses. Some people even did small business and just occupied a place on the roadside to build a shed. As long as they could occupy it, they would make a fortune when the demolition came.
As for the hutongs in Dazhalan, there were rumors of demolition around 2006, but it was difficult because the cost was too high, the risk of return was too great, and the area is too close to sensitive sites, so building heights were restricted. At that time, many people moved their household registration to houses of a few square meters in the big compound. A 10-square-meter house could have the household registration of all the relatives of the whole family, but it was never demolished until about two years ago, when Dazhalan Hutong was finally demolished (I know why very well because I have a relative who lives in Dali Hutong)
In addition to the houses of the Housing Administration, there are several other types of houses, such as those with private land deeds before liberation, which were replaced with new land deeds after liberation. These can be bought and sold and are permanent property rights, and there are also houses allocated by units later. The ownership of the units allocated by units initially belonged to the units, and later the housing reform houses became private property after paying a small amount of money.
That kind of private courtyard house was once very cheap. I remember that around 2010, it was just over a million yuan for a 10-square-meter house, and there was no purchase restriction (this kind of house was not a commercial house), and it also had a good school district. Of course, it became very expensive later, and the price increased several times. The “corridor school district house” that was once very popular in Beijing was derived from this kind of property.
Our heroine will eventually buy a courtyard house!