After returning home, Gu Shunhua took a few pieces of the sponge cake to Granny Tong and Old Master Pan. Then she brought the children back, washed their hands, and gave them the egg cakes to eat.
“This is sponge cake. I used to have it when I was little.”
The children peeled away the oil-paper wrapping, now turned completely transparent from the steam, and uncovered the cakes—soft and plump, shaped like plum blossoms. They stared at them for a long while, delighted, almost reluctant to take a bite.
“It’s a whole bag,” Gu Shunhua said. “It’s all for you. Go on, eat.”
Only then did the two children carefully take their first bite. The sponge cake was incredibly soft. As soon as they bit down, joy lit up their faces. With his cheeks puffed out, Duoduo mumbled, “So good! The egg cake is so good!”
Gu Shunhua poured them warm water to drink with it so they wouldn’t choke. After each had eaten a piece, she wiped the crumbs off their cheeks and began telling them about the kindergarten.
When the children heard they’d be going to kindergarten, they were so excited they started jumping up and down, clinging to her and chattering nonstop.
Duoduo even exclaimed, “Mama, kindergarten is great! They have yummy food!”
She had said that sentence so clearly that Gu Shunhua was a bit surprised. She deliberately asked, “Really? What kind of yummy food?”
Duoduo counted on her tiny fingers, “Boiled eggs, milk, meat! Stir-fried eggs, meat dumplings!”
Watching this, Gu Shunhua felt both relieved and overjoyed. In just a few days, Duoduo’s speech development had clearly improved. She deliberately encouraged more conversation. Though some words were still difficult and slightly slurred, there was definite progress.
She finally felt at ease.
She had never understood how the Duoduo in the novel had ended up so emotionally unstable, so now she paid extra attention to the children’s mental well-being. More than hoping they’d get along with their peers, she hoped they’d thrive in kindergarten.
Whatever other children could enjoy, she would strive to provide for them, so their childhood wouldn’t lack anything. She was carefully guarding their emotional health.
Maybe then, she could rewrite the ending.
She smiled and ran her fingers through Manman’s soft hair. “Do you know what meat is?”
Manman shook his head, replying obediently, “No.”
“Who told you about meat?” she asked.
Manman thought for a moment. “It was Brother Erlinzi. He said he’s had it before, and it’s really tasty.”
Gu Shunhua noticed that as Manman spoke, he licked his lips unconsciously, and beside him, Duoduo was discreetly swallowing her saliva.
After all, they were children. Hearing about something delicious would make anyone crave it—it was instinct, the most basic human yearning for nourishment.
“Well,” Gu Shunhua said, “if meat is really that tasty, then tomorrow Mama will take you to eat some. How about that?”
Manman and Duoduo looked at her in astonishment. “Really?”
“Of course,” she said.
She would use the food stamps Lei Yongquan had just given her to treat the children to something special—let them try it for themselves.
Before, she wouldn’t have dared. Her finances were too uncertain, and spending extra on luxuries for the kids was risky. But now, she felt far more confident.
Her father had returned to cooking, and she would soon be training in the hot kitchen herself—at least earning some wages. And unless something drastic happened, Ren Jingnian would soon be stationed in Langfang and likely ready to settle down with her. Even if, worst-case scenario, he ran off with Chen Lu, she could still find a way to get money from him to support the children.
In short, the future no longer seemed bleak.
More importantly, she had secured her household registration and obtained permission to build a house—life was looking up.
The next morning, while sipping soybean milk, she casually mentioned she’d be taking the children out. Chen Cuiyue paused what she was doing and said, “I have some food coupons here. Take them—just in case you want to buy something for the kids.”
Gu Shunhua was slightly taken aback. She thought to herself: Mom really has changed. She’s nothing like she used to be.
She replied, “Mom, it’s okay. I’m not short on food coupons. I went to see a friend yesterday and he gave me a bunch.”
Chen Cuiyue frowned. “How can you just take things from people? However much he gave you, I’ll give you the same—just return his. You can’t accept things so easily. If word gets out, how would that look?”
Her mother’s sudden warmth was something Gu Shunhua wasn’t used to. Her affection had always come with conditions. Today’s spontaneous concern felt unprecedented.
She hesitated briefly, not quite sure how to feel. It wasn’t quite touching—but it was surprising, and oddly comforting.
So she finally said, “Mom, it’s really fine. That friend’s family is very well-off. He made it clear—he knows I’m struggling right now and just wants to give me a hand. He even got me bricks—enough red bricks to build a house. They’ll be delivered in a few days. If I can accept the bricks, turning my nose up at the food coupons would just be putting on airs.”
When Chen Cuiyue heard about the bricks, she was shocked. Even if she didn’t fully understand how things worked, she knew these materials weren’t something ordinary folks could get their hands on—they were all produced under state plans and allocated to specific units.
She asked for more details and learned it was three thousand bricks. She was delighted. “Well, that’s wonderful! A red-brick house—it’ll be warm and keep the wind out. But remember, if someone treats us so well, you must repay that kindness someday.”
“I know,” Gu Shunhua said.
As she spoke, she remembered that Lei Yongquan had later ended up in legal trouble—something vague in the book, just mentioned in passing, but enough to get her attention.
Fortunately, it gave her a timeframe. She’d stay alert and try to steer him clear of that disaster.
That morning, Gu Shunhua stayed home with the children, cleaning and tidying up, and laid out the clothes they would wear to kindergarten. After all, this was the capital—she couldn’t dress them too casually. She didn’t want the kids to be looked down on because of shabby clothes.
They had just a light lunch before she took the children out. First, she mailed the new study materials to Ren Jingnian. Then she stopped by Wang Xinrui’s house to drop off the two bags of egg cakes and invited her out to eat.
But Wang Xinrui declined, her eyes darting about. “We have guests at home,” she said.
Just one look and Gu Shunhua could guess—must be a matchmaking visit.
They chatted a bit, and Gu Shunhua mentioned that she was going to be a kitchen apprentice. Wang Xinrui thought it over. “That’s a good trade. If you can really get the hang of it, there’s a lot of potential in it.”
Gu Shunhua had come to the same conclusion. There really was a lot of potential. In the novel, Chen Yaotang had later opened a restaurant called something like “Imperial Banquet of Eight Treasures,” all under the name of being a descendant of the imperial chefs. It was all fraud—he had no real skills, only her father’s reputation.
If Chen Yaotang, who had no ability whatsoever, dared to fly the flag and play the big shot, why couldn’t she, Gu Shunhua?
Once further reforms came, she could follow the same path. Who said she couldn’t?
As they chatted, Wang Xinrui brought up a gathering of their fellow sent-down youths. She said she’d let her know once it was all arranged, and they could all have a meal together. Gu Shunhua was more than happy to agree.
That kind of friendship—built during a very particular time in history—was irreplaceable. In this lifetime, you’d never again find friends so loyal and selfless.
On this point, Gu Shunhua understood far more deeply than Wang Xinrui—after all, she had lived through the entirety of that novel.
After saying goodbye to Wang Xinrui, Gu Shunhua took the kids to Xisi Pailou. It wasn’t far, just over four kilometers, and they arrived after a few stops on the bus.
She wandered the area with the children, and time slipped by. By the time they reached East Gangwashi Street, it was already evening.
That year’s Spring Festival Gala at the Great Hall of the People had featured a dance party for the first time, covered by both Xinhua and People’s Daily. After that, dancing had exploded in popularity throughout the capital. Beyond proper dance halls, even public plazas now had young people dancing.
As Gu Shunhua passed through Xisi Pailou Plaza with the kids, she spotted some young men and women carrying ice skates. At first she just glanced at them, but then something seemed off. She turned for a second look—and sure enough, among the dancers was Su Yinghong in her red cotton jacket and bobbed hair.
Su Yinghong was dancing with a group of youths, lost in the rhythm, while others smoked nearby and made a lively racket.
Seeing this stirred memories in Gu Shunhua. She remembered when Yinghong was a little girl, two years younger than her, with twin pigtails trailing behind as she called out “Elder Sister!” She had loved to dance even then, taking lessons at the youth center and returning home beaming—“Sister, do I look pretty?”
Later, through occasional letters from her parents, Gu Shunhua learned that Su Yinghong had become known around the hutong as a “quanzi”1—a loose girl, someone who mixed with street punks and got involved in messy relationships.
But Gu Shunhua never judged girls for falling in love early. Everyone would fall in love someday. What saddened her was seeing Su Yinghong wasting her time aimlessly, not doing anything worthwhile.
She was still thinking about this as she entered Shaguoju, so much so that she was distracted while ordering.
The waitress snapped, “Do you even know how to order?”
Service in state-run restaurants during this era was notoriously brusque. This one wasn’t even the worst—others might’ve outright cursed at the customers.
Gu Shunhua quickly offered a polite smile. “Sorry for the trouble. I’ll have the braised lamb in clay pot, a portion of fried ‘deer tail,’ three crispy pancakes, and a pot of hot water.”
The waitress lifted her eyelids and gave her a second look—those were indeed the restaurant’s signature dishes, portioned just right for one adult and two kids. Without another word, she took the ration tickets and payment, and passed the order to the kitchen.
It was evening, but since it was a weekday, the restaurant wasn’t crowded. After settling the children into their seats, Gu Shunhua passed the time by telling them about the history of Shaguoju.
When it came to food, Chen Cuiyue always said that Gu Shunhua had no luck—her father had been denounced by the time she was old enough to remember, and the family had struggled ever since. It was her eldest brother who had enjoyed the finer things.
But her father was still Gu Quanfu—just hearing him reminisce had taught her so much about culinary traditions and etiquette. Those ultra-thin slivers of preserved vegetables weren’t just for frugality—they were a legacy of old-school culinary refinement.
She could recite the history of all the Eight Great Restaurants of Beijing, and Shaguoju was one of them.
Her father once told her that, strictly speaking, there was no such thing as “Beijing cuisine”—just a mix of various regional styles. But if you had to name something truly native to the capital, it would be roast duck, hot pot, and stewed meats—and when it came to stewed meats, Shaguoju was king.
Everything on their menu was meat.
So she told the children all about its legacy, the three plaques it once had, its “no service after noon” rule, and its signature dishes. It was the first time the children had been inside a real restaurant. Their little faces were lit with shy excitement as they looked around, curious and wide-eyed.
She pointed at a plaque. “That one was written by Duanwenrui, a Grand Secretary of the Wenhua Hall during the Daoguang era.”
Of course, the children didn’t fully understand, but they still nodded.
A few other patrons nearby glanced over in surprise, and even the waitress looked at Gu Shunhua with newfound respect.
After quite a wait, the food arrived.
The cold wind outside had reddened the children’s cheeks. Though there was a stove inside, it wasn’t exactly toasty. They were still rubbing their small hands together for warmth when the hot clay pot began to release rich, fragrant steam.
The slices of pork belly were cut paper-thin, with alternating layers of fat and lean. Far from greasy, the fat gleamed while the lean meat was tender and soft. Paired with pickled cabbage and translucent vermicelli, the broth had absorbed every bit of flavor.
Gu Shunhua scooped out servings for the kids—meat, soup, a bit of cabbage—and tore pieces of pancake for them.
The pancakes were crusty and floury, crumbling slightly as they were chewed. Dipping a piece of meat in the house sauce—flavored with garlic and premium soy—was an old-school indulgence.
The children had never tasted anything like this before. Their eyes lit up as they stuffed their mouths, savoring each bite. The thin meat melted in their mouths, the tangy cabbage balanced the richness—it was so good, it almost brought tears to their eyes.
Duoduo’s cheeks puffed out as she chewed. “Mama, you eat too!”
Gu Shunhua smiled. “Of course Mama’s eating—we ordered three dishes! If we don’t finish, we’ll take it home.”
Manman nodded enthusiastically. “So yummy!”
Then came the fried “deer tail”—actually pork intestine, cleaned, stuffed, deep-fried, and served with salted garlic water. Crispy outside, tender inside—not greasy at all.
The kids devoured it without even the garlic dip, piece after piece.
Gu Shunhua had to slow them down so they wouldn’t overeat.
Their little faces were full of joy, sticky with oil and satisfaction.
Then Duoduo thought of her dad. “Mama, let’s save some for Daddy! He hasn’t had any!”
Manman agreed. “Let’s pack it up for him!”
Hearing that, Gu Shunhua’s heart warmed. What good, thoughtful kids. If she raised them right, how could they ever turn out the way they had in that book?
She chuckled. “Daddy’s still in Inner Mongolia. He’ll be back after the New Year.”
Duoduo blinked, thinking hard. “But—but—but…”
She still struggled with her words sometimes—not true stuttering, just her mind racing faster than her mouth.
Gu Shunhua gently patted her head. “But what, sweetheart?”
Duoduo opened and closed her mouth, then finally managed: “But I heard Daddy! He talked to us!”
The words came out smoothly—no stumbling at all.
Gu Shunhua smiled. “That was the telephone, remember? We could hear him, but we can’t see him. And we can’t send him food through it.”
Manman chimed in, serious as ever: “Phones are just for talking. Daddy’s still in Inner Mongolia.”
Duoduo blinked again. “Ohhh…”
Her little voice dragged out the sound, innocent and adorable.
Looking at her, Gu Shunhua couldn’t help but laugh. These were her children, and they were wonderful. That author must’ve had a grudge—against her, against them. How could anyone write such a cruel ending?
Still, she reined in her thoughts. “It’s too late today. The post office is closed. We’ll call Daddy in a few days, okay? Once you start kindergarten, we’ll call him on the weekend!”
The kids didn’t understand the timing, but they were thrilled—both about calling and starting school. “Yay! Call Daddy! Kindergarten!”
Their voices rose a bit too loudly. Gu Shunhua shushed them gently. “We’re in a restaurant. Don’t disturb other guests.”
The children quickly echoed her “shhh” and looked around. Luckily, there weren’t many people nearby—just one person smiling at them from another table.
The kids blushed and lowered their heads.
Amused, Gu Shunhua glanced at the other diner—and froze.
The man’s face felt oddly familiar.
Then a line from the book surfaced in her mind: “Refined features, gentle demeanor, the grace of a traditional scholar; gold-rimmed glasses perched on a tall nose, crisp white shirt, tall and slender—he stood with quiet dignity.”
It was describing Yan Chongli.
To her, he was just a stranger. A man from that book—someone brought to life only in words.
But human instinct was strange like that—she saw the man and knew instantly: this was Yan Chongli.
Fate worked in curious ways. No matter how far she strayed from the book’s storyline, certain events still seemed destined to unfold.
She thought of the title page she had torn out and thrown away, the signature she had cast into the trash can, thinking it would erase all traces of fate. But clearly, such childish defiance did nothing to alter destiny.
Perhaps her expression had changed subtly—Yan Chongli noticed, and gave her a polite, warm smile and nod.
He was seated at a table with two or three men of similar age, probably colleagues or friends. Gu Shunhua forced a faint smile in return and lowered her gaze, turning back to feed the children.
The two children didn’t eat much in general, and the gangtou bread was filling. To avoid waste, Gu Shunhua made sure they ate the sauerkraut and meat while it was still hot and kept the fried luwei’er to pack up later, since it was easier to carry without soup.
After the meal, she asked the server for kraft paper and packed up the leftover luwei’er, along with a piece of bread. Only some sauerkraut remained, which she left behind.
As she led the children out, Yan Chongli and his companions happened to be leaving at the same time. Just outside the restaurant, someone called out, “Mr. Yan,” confirming her suspicion—there was no doubt about it now.
This really was Yan Chongli.
Gu Shunhua’s fingers trembled as she clutched Duoduo’s hand, but she forced herself to take a deep breath, steady her nerves, and walk out calmly.
But as fate would have it, a basketball came hurtling their way. Some teenagers nearby had been playing, and the ball flew straight toward Duoduo.
Gu Shunhua panicked. Her hair bristled as she instinctively dropped down to shield her daughter.
Just then, Yan Chongli rushed forward and caught the ball mid-air. It had been thrown with great force—he managed to catch it, though the ball spun in his hands from the momentum.
Heart racing, Gu Shunhua checked on Duoduo while a few anxious teens hovered nearby, clearly scared. Street basketball wasn’t unusual—there was even a public court across from Tiananmen—but when an accident happened, kids naturally panicked.
Seeing that no one was hurt, Gu Shunhua didn’t want to escalate things. “It’s fine, just be careful next time. Don’t hit anyone.”
The boys apologized and quickly fled with the ball.
Duoduo was no longer scared. Instead, she curiously watched the ball bounce away. That calmed Gu Shunhua a little.
She had been extremely sensitive to her children’s emotional states, fearful they might grow up twisted like in the novel. But she knew she couldn’t coddle them forever. Scrapes and stumbles were part of life. If the kids were fine, she could afford to relax.
When she looked up, she saw Yan Chongli watching her gently.
She felt a twinge of hesitation. She didn’t want anything to do with him. He’d helped her—yes—but she couldn’t just pretend nothing had happened.
Forcing herself to speak, she said, “Comrade, thank you for what you did just now.”
He nodded slightly. “It was nothing. Just a small thing. You’re out alone with two children—do be careful. There’s a lot of dancing and sports here, especially around this area.”
Gu Shunhua nodded. “Yes. Thank you again.”
He glanced at her thoughtfully. Earlier, he had overheard her explaining the history of Shaguoju to her children—every detail precise and vivid. He and his friends had been intrigued.
After all, in this post-Cultural Revolution era, much knowledge had been lost. To hear someone recall such traditions stirred nostalgia and admiration.
But now, Gu Shunhua was clearly guarded. Her tone was overly polite, almost cold. He sensed the distance and offered only a faint smile. “Well then, take care. We’ll be going.”
Gu Shunhua waited until he was gone before exhaling deeply.
She didn’t want to follow the book’s original path. Her mind was clear; her resolve firm. But the way Yan Chongli kept appearing in her life by chance—it unsettled her. What if she let down her guard and got pulled into something?
Better to stay away entirely.
She saw Yan Chongli and his companions heading down East Gangwashi Street. To avoid running into them again, she turned into a nearby alley, planning to cut through to the bus stop.
Xisi’s alleys were among the oldest in Beijing, dating back to the Yuan and Ming Dynasties. Every corner was steeped in history. Just beside her stood two red corner buildings—now home to the Xinhua Bookstore, but in the Ming Dynasty, they’d been execution grounds. The archway nearby had once held gallows and ceremonial stands.
As she turned into Donkey Meat Alley, she heard shouting ahead—an argument, perhaps even a fight.
She frowned. With the kids in tow, she didn’t want to risk it. Just as she turned to leave, a voice shrieked out: “If you’ve got guts, tell him to stop harassing me! He’s the one pestering me—what does that have to do with me?!”
Then—smack. A slap rang out through the frigid air, sharp and brutal.
Gu Shunhua stopped cold.
She didn’t want to get involved. She wasn’t a saint.
But—
That hoarse voice sounded like Su Yinghong.
Drawing a sharp breath, the cold air stung her lungs. She told the children to hide behind an old pagoda tree and whispered, “Stand here. Don’t move. If you do, Mama won’t be able to find you.”
The kids, sensing her serious tone, nodded solemnly.
She wrapped her scarf around her face, leaving only her eyes exposed, and rushed back. As she passed someone’s front step, she grabbed a sturdy stick—likely used as firewood.
When she arrived, she saw three women in padded coats surrounding Su Yinghong. Her face was swollen, her hair a mess, teeth clenched in defiance. Two women held her down while a third jeered.
“You little tramp. Trying to seduce my man, huh? Filthy whore! Think you’re something special? Why don’t you just hang yourself!”
Typical juvenile delinquents—known as “circle girls”—with their foul, vulgar mouths.
Gu Shunhua charged in without hesitation, slamming her fist into one of the attackers, sending her flying.
Without stopping, she swung the stick at the others. Caught off guard, they screamed and stumbled back.
Su Yinghong, recognizing her, jolted upright and jumped into the fray.
One girl came charging, fists raised, but Gu Shunhua was ready. Her strength, honed through years on the Mongolian frontier—clearing land, building homes, mining—made her a match for any street brawler. She’d also learned basic self-defense from Ren Jingnian.
One of the gang fled. The remaining two were pinned down by Shunhua and Su Yinghong and thrashed about on the ground like fish hauled out of water, straining every muscle in their bodies to struggle free—but they were pinned down tight, unable to move an inch.
Gu Shunhua let out a cold laugh. “Looks like you girls are itching for a beating. Let big auntie’s here to loosen up your bones a bit!”
In a Beijing dialect, it was a sharp and chilling threat.
One of the girls snarled through gritted teeth, “Who the hell do you think you are? If you’ve got the balls, leave your name!”
Shunhua smirked. “I’m a woman. No balls, remember? But mess with me again, and you’ll learn what real trouble looks like.”
She let them go. “I’ve got better things to do. Now scram.”
Su Yinghong hesitated, fists still clenched. Shunhua barked, “Let go.”
She did.
The two girls scrambled to their feet, wiping blood from their faces. “You’re dead, bitch! Just wait!”
They backed away, then bolted.
Breathless, Su Yinghong wiped her face.
Shunhua fetched her children from behind the tree. Their noses were running in the cold. She quickly wiped them down and turned to Yinghong.
“What happened? Why were they beating you?”
Su Yinghong growled, “Nothing.”
“Nothing?” Shunhua said. “Fine, I’ll tell your mother.”
“You wouldn’t dare!”
Shunhua laughed. “After all I just did, is that how you talk to your savior?”
Yinghong fell silent.
They walked in silence. Shunhua handed her the packed luwei’er.
“Eat something.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Eat.”
Duoduo piped up sweetly, “Auntie’s hungry. You eat.”
Yinghong hesitated, then took a bite. It was still warm. Crispy, fragrant.
Duoduo looked up. “Is it good?”
Yinghong saw the anticipation in her eyes. “…Yeah. It’s good.”
Duoduo beamed. “Mommy bought it! Mommy’s food is always the best!”
“…Mm.”
Suddenly, her nose burned. Maybe it was the winter. Maybe it was the bruises.
Or maybe—she just wanted to cry.
Author’s Note:
Cotton-padded coats with hoods sewn into the collar were the peak of winter fashion at the time (as worn by Zhang Jingchu in the film Peacock). The ideal winter outfit? Sheepskin cap + mianhou (quilted coat) + three-piece leather shoes (leather grades varied).