"He's already gotten old long ago, and if he were to decline, he would have done so already." Meng Ping closed his eyes, his thick eyelashes fluttering like butterfly wings.
"What kind of nonsense are you spouting? Careful not to anger your dad to death."
"Don't worry! My dad's temperament is still good!"
The two conversed in the room while Meng Xingzhi, wearing a black coat with his hands in his pockets, stood outside the door, quietly listening. The door to the sickroom was ajar, allowing a clear view of everything inside.
Meng Ping had lost a lot of weight, and there was a perpetual melancholy in his eyes.
Meng Xingzhi felt a pang in his heart; to say he didn't feel pained to see his only remaining son like this would be a lie. Meng Ping had always been a worry, and with his busy work, he never had the time to discipline him.
