Chapter 1

On the day I married for our families' business interests, I set myself clear boundaries: fulfill my duties as a wife in a marriage of convenience, stay out of my husband's affairs, leave his child alone, and preferably avoid spending too much time at the He residence.

Then a soft little four-and-a-half-year-old boy caught the hem of my skirt and whispered, “Auntie Cheng, could you stay a little longer?”

My heart melted. I promptly changed my position.

“Call me Mom.”

Later, holding the child, I earnestly negotiated with He Yuheng.

“If we get divorced, could Xiaoman come and live with me?”

The normally unflappable Mr. He was silent for a long time. Then he began unfastening his cuffs.

“Cheng Wu, would you consider trying to like his father first?”

1

A fine rain was falling outside the Civil Affairs Bureau the day He Yuheng and I registered our marriage.

He stood at the foot of the steps with a black umbrella, his suit without a single crease, waiting for me.

We had met only twice, at dinners arranged by our families. Between us, we had exchanged fewer than twenty sentences.

My mother pressed the household registration booklet into my hand and told me not to be willful.

I nodded, already picturing married life: a vast, empty house; a husband too busy to come home much; and a child who would probably be wary of me.

Fine. We could all leave one another alone.

Afterward, He Yuheng opened the car door for me and spoke frankly.

“Cheng Wu, work keeps me very busy. A nanny usually looks after Xiaoman. You needn't force yourself to take on a mother's responsibilities. If anyone in the He family makes you uncomfortable, tell me.”

I was equally direct. “I have my own floral studio. Sometimes I'm busy in the evenings. Don't worry—I won't interfere in your life or your son's.”

He glanced at me, apparently satisfied with these boundaries.

“All right.”

As we drove into the courtyard, I was still thinking that a man as cold as a block of ice might at least save me some trouble.

Then a small head appeared in the entrance hall.

The boy wore cream-colored bear pajamas, his hair rumpled from sleep. He hugged an old toy whale. First he looked at He Yuheng. Only after making sure no one objected did he approach slowly.

He didn't throw himself into my arms or say hello. He merely hid his little hands behind his back and looked up at me.

His eyes resembled He Yuheng's: dark, bright, and quiet, but with an added wariness.

“Are you Auntie Cheng?”

I crouched down. “Yes. I'm Cheng Wu.”

He pressed his lips together, as though preparing to accomplish something terribly difficult.

“Dad said you're going to live here. Can I call you Mom?”

The living room fell so quiet that only the rain remained.

He Yuheng clearly hadn't expected this either. He was about to speak when I took Xiaoman's fingers, clenched so tightly that they had gone white.

“Yes,” I said. “But you don't have to be so careful about pleasing me. Call me that when you want to. When you don't, Cheng Wu is fine too.”

He stared at me. Two seconds later, he suddenly pushed the whale into my arms.

“This is Xiaolan,” he introduced solemnly. “He can sleep with you so you won't be scared of the new house.”

Holding the whale, whose plush fur had worn thin in places, I felt my carefully drawn boundaries unravel.

2

Xiaoman was not the son of He Yuheng's former wife.

I learned that from Aunt Zhou, the housekeeper, a few days into our marriage.

His mother was He Yuheng's younger half sister, He Zhiyao. They shared a father.

After Xiaoman's birth, her postpartum depression had grown increasingly severe. Later, she died in an accident.

The child's biological father had long since disappeared from their lives. He Yuheng brought his infant nephew home and completed the adoption.

That was why Xiaoman bore the surname He, and why He Yuheng's name appeared under “Father” in the household register.

Aunt Zhou told me this while cutting fruit.

When I said nothing, she grew flustered.

“He wouldn't let us mention it before. He was afraid the little one might overhear and start worrying.”

I nodded, an ache settling in my chest.

No wonder he had asked so cautiously.

He hadn't merely been asking what to call me. He had been asking whether he would be left behind again.

That evening, I came home from work to find Xiaoman in his child's chair at the dining table, a plate of carrots and broccoli before him and his eyes rimmed red.

“He won't eat,” Aunt Zhou whispered. “He says he wants to wait for you.”

I put down my bag and sat beside him.

“What's wrong?”

He picked at his spoon, looking miserable.

“Grandma Zhou said you like flowers. I drew some at kindergarten today. I wanted to show you.”

He took a crumpled drawing from his schoolbag.

Colored circles covered the paper. Three stick figures stood together in the center, with a little blue whale beside them.

“This is Dad. This is me. This is Mom.” He pointed solemnly. “Xiaolan's here too.”

I accepted it and carefully tucked it inside my phone case.

“It's beautiful. Shall I take you to the studio tomorrow and teach you about real flowers?”

His eyes immediately lit up. Then he asked quietly, “Can Dad come too?”

I looked at He Yuheng, who had just walked in. He hadn't even removed his coat, and fatigue lingered between his brows.

I answered for him. “Yes. Mr. He, tomorrow's Saturday. Are you free?”

He paused, looked down into Xiaoman's hopeful eyes, and answered without thinking.

“Yes.”

At last, Xiaoman agreed to eat. He stuffed his least favorite broccoli into his mouth and chewed with bulging cheeks, still finding time to praise me.

“Mom keeps her promises.”

Later, He Yuheng stopped me outside his study.

“Thank you,” he said.

I touched the drawing inside my phone case.

“No need. I just think neither of you is very good at saying what's on your mind.”

To my surprise, the tips of his ears turned faintly red.

3

My studio stood in a narrow riverside lane in the old town. It was called Mist & Blooms.

I had studied horticulture at university. Instead of joining the family business, I opened my own shop, creating floral arrangements for weddings, restaurants, and brand events.

The Cheng family had always considered it a frivolous occupation. Only my grandmother supported me. Before she died, she left me a small shop premises.

On Saturday morning, Xiaoman stood at the worktable in the little apron I had prepared for him, looking like a very serious miniature assistant.

“This is lisianthus.” I handed him a pale purple stem. “The petals are soft, but the flowers last a long time.”

He took it carefully and leaned in to sniff.

“Like a cloud that tastes of grapes.”

I laughed. “What a lovely description.”

He Yuheng, sitting in a corner on a video call, glanced up at us.

He was impeccably dressed as usual, except that while I wasn't looking, Xiaoman had stuck a daisy sticker on his cuff.

He noticed it but didn't peel it off. He merely looked down once and calmly continued his meeting.

A senior colleague broke off halfway through a report.

I guessed they had seen the daisy too.

That afternoon, a client arrived unexpectedly to choose wedding flowers.

She was an old classmate, Shen Yan, who had never learned to watch her mouth.

Seeing Xiaoman, she laughed.

“Cheng Wu, you work fast. Getting married is one thing, but you've picked up a son this big too. Children are such a nuisance. And with the He family the way it is, don't let yourself get dragged in.”

Xiaoman's hand froze around the flower shears.

I took them from him. My voice was calm and distinctly unwelcoming.

“Shen Yan, if you're here to order flowers, talk about flowers. Whether my family is a nuisance is not for you to judge.”

Her face changed color. She tried to salvage the conversation.

I closed the order book.

“Today's order is canceled. I'll refund the deposit to the original account.”

She left in her high heels.

Xiaoman lowered his head.

“Mom, am I a nuisance?”

I crouched and lifted his face.

“You can eat your meals, draw pictures, and turn Dad's cuff into a little garden. What part of that is a nuisance?”

“But I make you unhappy.”

“The person who made me unhappy just now was a grown-up with no manners.” I retied his apron. “Xiaoman, when someone says something bad about you, you don't have to immediately wonder whether they're right. You can tell them you don't like hearing it.”

At some point, He Yuheng had finished his meeting. He stood not far away.

On the drive home, he suddenly remarked, “The Shen family's project contract expires next month.”

I turned toward him. “Mr. He, don't cut off someone's business over a single remark. There's no need to go that far.”

His hands rested on the wheel, his voice level.

“I won't. But if they want the contract renewed, they should first learn to teach their family some manners.”

I understood him and couldn't help smiling.

So this block of ice wasn't entirely without feeling.

4

At first, I thought caring for a child simply meant being willing to spend time with him.

Later, I discovered that a four-and-a-half-year-old had an entire system of universal laws I couldn't begin to understand.

In simpler terms: a collection of very peculiar rules.

He refused clothes with labels. Refused milk with a skin on top. When he bathed, the toy whale had to sit by the door and wait. Most of all, he feared thunder. At the first rumble, every light in his room had to be on.

The first time a heavy storm came, I returned from the studio to find him curled in a corner of the living-room sofa, clutching Xiaolan, his face pale.

When I approached, he didn't jump into my arms as usual.

“Mom, will lightning break our house?”

“No.” I drew the curtains and spread two blankets on the floor. “But we can build a secret base. The thunder won't be able to hear our password in here.”

He blinked.

I propped up a tent with cushions, put soft piano music on a tablet, and brought warm milk.

When He Yuheng came downstairs, he found us beneath the blankets, earnestly debating our password.

“Open sesame is too ordinary,” Xiaoman said.

“How about ‘Xiaolan wants strawberries today’?”

At last, he laughed, his eyes curving.

He Yuheng watched for a long time before removing his suit jacket and sitting outside the tent.

“Why aren't you coming in, Dad?”

“Not enough room.”

I lifted a corner of the blanket.

“Mr. He may apply for membership, but there's a fee.”

He raised an eyebrow. “How much?”

“A plate of fruit, plus taking Xiaoman to kindergarten tomorrow morning.”

“Agreed.”

The next morning, outside the kindergarten, Xiaoman held both our hands and refused to let go.

A classmate ran up.

“He Yuman, is your mom back?”

He stopped, looked at me first, then straightened a little.

“This is my mom. Her name is Cheng Wu.”

Warmth spread through my chest. I crouched to adjust his backpack straps.

“That's right. I'm Xiaoman's mom.”

That afternoon, his teacher messaged me. He had volunteered to join the art lesson and drawn a family of three eating cake in a flower shop.

I sent the picture to He Yuheng.

A few minutes later, he replied: “Come home early tonight. Let's have dinner together.”

It was the first time he had asked me to come home for dinner.

5

Family dinners at the old He residence were what I dreaded most.

He Yuheng's stepmother, Qin Manyi, placed great importance on propriety. The first time we met, she judged my clothes “too plain” and hinted that, having married into the family, I should set aside my work.

He Yuheng had said only, “Let Cheng Wu decide for herself what she wants to do.”

Qin Manyi said no more, but she had disliked me ever since.

At that family dinner, Xiaoman accidentally spilled soup on the tablecloth.

She set down her chopsticks.

“Old enough to know better, and still so clumsy. When Zhiyao was here, she always said children had to learn manners from an early age.”

His face turned white. His shoulders drew in.

I dried his sleeve with a tissue and looked up.

“When a child spills soup, the first thing to do is check whether he's burned himself. As for manners, if you're worried about the tablecloth, I'll replace it.”

Her expression darkened.

“Cheng Wu, I'm helping you teach your child.”

“You needn't trouble yourself.” I lifted Xiaoman onto the chair beside me. “Yuheng and I will teach him.”

He Yuheng moved the soup bowl in front of himself. He didn't raise his voice.

“Aunt Qin, Xiaoman is my son. Please don't mention things that upset him in front of him again.”

The words carried considerable weight.

She opened her mouth but said nothing more.

Xiaoman stayed quiet on the way home. As we got out, he suddenly tugged He Yuheng's hand.

“Dad, does Grandma Qin dislike me?”

He Yuheng crouched and met his eyes.

“Whether someone likes you doesn't decide whether you deserve love. You're the family Mom and I chose.”

Xiaoman looked at me.

I held out my little finger.

“And I'm very good at sticking up for my family. If anyone upsets you, come to me.”

“Will you argue with them?”

“That depends,” I answered seriously. “If they'll listen to reason, we'll talk it through. If they won't, I'll tell them to keep their distance.”

He considered that, then nodded solemnly.

That evening, I found a stack of photographs in He Yuheng's desk drawer, recording Xiaoman's childhood.

From the first time he rolled over to his first steps, each picture had a date and a short note on the back.

The newest showed him holding a stem of lisianthus in the shop the previous week.

On the back: “The first time he's smiled so happily.”

I didn't ask why He Yuheng kept these pictures hidden. I simply closed the drawer gently.

It wasn't that he didn't love his son. He buried that love so deep that Xiaoman often couldn't see it.

As I pushed the drawer shut and turned around, I found Xiaoman standing in the study doorway with Xiaolan.

He clearly couldn't sleep. He wore only one slipper; the other had vanished somewhere.

“Mom, is Dad angry?”

I lifted him onto the sofa and found his missing slipper.

“Dad was protecting you today. He's just not very good at saying nice things.”

Xiaoman looked down and tugged Xiaolan's fin.

“Then I won't spill soup next time.”

“Spilling soup at dinner is perfectly ordinary. I did it when I was little too.” I took the whale from him and set it on the table. “But here's something you can remember. If someone makes you uncomfortable, say so first. If you can't sort it out, come to Mom or Dad. You don't have to make yourself tiny just to keep someone else happy.”

He nodded as though he understood, then suddenly asked, “Did Dad spill soup when he was little too?”

I laughed.

“Probably. He doesn't look like someone who ever did, but he was a child once.”

A very quiet cough sounded outside.

He Yuheng had apparently been standing there for a while. He looked unusually awkward.

Xiaoman immediately slid off the sofa and looked up at him.

“Dad, did you spill soup when you were little?”

After a silence, he nodded.

“Yes. I once spilled a whole glass of milk too.”

Xiaoman's eyes lit up, as though he had finally discovered a small secret that put him on equal footing with his father.

He ran over to take He Yuheng's hand, then turned and pulled me along.

The warm hall light fell across the three of us as we slowly walked to his room.

No one mentioned that bowl of soup again.

6

Xiaoman's birthday fell in early summer.

His wish was simple: a party at home, with flowers and cake, and only people he knew.

I started preparing well in advance. He liked whales, so I made a little ocean from blue and white hydrangeas and baby's breath. Since strangers frightened him, I invited only his teacher, the children he often played with, and Aunt Zhou.

He Yuheng was in charge of the cake.

He ordered the wrong flavor.

Xiaoman liked strawberries. He ordered green tea.

I looked at the bright green cake and struggled not to laugh.

He Yuheng looked unusually embarrassed.

“My secretary said he liked green things.”

“That's broccoli,” I said.

He was silent for two seconds, then reached for his phone.

“I'll order another.”

“Too late.”

I took strawberries from the refrigerator, washed and sliced them, and arranged layers over the top.

When Xiaoman came home and saw the green cake covered in red strawberries, he stared for a moment, then clapped happily.

“Dad made a seaweed cake!”

He Yuheng looked at me.

I winked. “Not a bad rescue, was it?”

Halfway through the party, someone from the Cheng family arrived without warning.

My father's assistant carried a bank card and a message.

“Chairman Cheng says that now Miss Cheng has married into the He family, there's no need to continue with the studio. Hand over the shop, and the family will arrange a proper job for you.”

The atmosphere in the living room turned cold.

I took the card and set it straight back on the tray.

“Please tell my father that my grandmother left the flower shop to me. It doesn't belong to the Cheng family. If he wants to claim it, he should first examine the title documents she left.”

“Miss Cheng, the chairman only wants what's best for you,” the assistant said awkwardly.

“If he wants what's best for me, he shouldn't choose my son's birthday to spoil the mood.”

I opened the door.

“Goodbye.”

Once it closed, Xiaoman hugged my legs.

“Mom, do you have to go and work somewhere else?”

I lifted him and rested my forehead against his.

“No. I love the flower shop. And I love coming home to see you every day.”

He sighed with relief, his little hand patting my back as though he were comforting me.