The street remained unchanged—the same cracked pavement, the same weathered apartment building, even the broken streetlight flickered as it always had. Chen Hansheng stood outside his family's door. He'd intended to knock gently, but his fist instinctively hammered the wood with loud, eager *bang-bang-bang*s. "Mom! I'm home!"
The inner wooden door creaked open first. A woman in her forties, Liang Meijuan, appeared, her hands still damp from washing vegetables. She scowled as she unlatched the metal security gate. "Must you shout? The whole building can hear you! And why didn't you bring your keys, you grown oaf?"
*Same old routine, same old warmth*, Chen Hansheng thought.
Places hold memories—like how palace staff claimed to see ghostly maids pacing crimson walls during thunderstorms, their images imprinted by magnetic fields during past storms. Chen had felt uneasy returning to this life, but Liang Meijuan's scolding snapped him instantly into the rhythm of 17 years ago. Nothing had changed.
He strode inside, ignoring his mother's sharp glare. The living room felt stifling. "Why's the AC off? Where's Dad?" he asked, rummaging through the sofa for the remote.
Liang Meijuan hauled a half-frozen watermelon from the fridge. "Electricity bills aren't free, you know. Your father's still at work."
Spotting the watermelon, Chen grinned. "Thanks, Mom. Knew you'd save me some."
"All charm, no sense," she retorted, though secretly pleased by her son's liveliness. "Where's your acceptance letter?"
Chen tossed the envelope onto the dining table. "Here."
"Careful!" Liang Meijuan snatched it up, checking for sticky watermelon stains before swatting him lightly with a spatula. "Little brat! You want to get disqualified before term even starts?"
Her frown melted as she read the crimson document: *"Chen Hansheng is hereby admitted to the Public Administration program. Report on September 1, 2002."* Though college expansions since 1999 had diluted its prestige, a degree still carried weight—especially among her relatives, none of whom had attended university. *A Tier 2 school isn't bad*, she consoled herself. *He can always aim for grad school.*
As Liang Meijuan daydreamed, Chen devoured three slices of watermelon, then headed to shower. "Wait!" she called. "Let the water heat up first!"
Their solar-powered heater needed time to warm. Chen ignored her, turning the faucet to cold. "Perfect for this heat!"
"Stubborn mule," Liang Meijuan muttered. She traced the embossed university seal on the acceptance letter, feeling a quiet relief. *Four more years, and Lao Chen and I can finally breathe. Then grandkids…* It was the simple future every middle-aged mother in Gangcheng craved.
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Under the icy spray, Chen studied his reflection—smooth skin, taut muscles, eyes that belied his 18 years. He pressed a finger against the fogged mirror. "Since you dragged me back, I'll make it count. Sure, I'd get rich either way… but where's the fun in that?"
The clang of the security gate interrupted him. Chen threw on a loose shirt and shorts, sauntering out to greet his father. "Hey, Lao Chen!"
Chen Zhaojun stood in the living room—a tall, reserved man whose features mirrored his son's. Where Chen crackled with restless energy, his father radiated quiet steadiness. He acknowledged his son with a nod, then adjusted the AC temperature upward, noticing the water droplets on Chen's back.
Before they could speak, Liang Meijuan brandished a pack of *Hongjinling* cigarettes from Chen's laundry. "Since when do you smoke?"
Chen blinked. *Forgot to hide Lao Xu's confiscated pack.* He shrugged. "Teacher Xu felt bad about my exam scores. His consolation gift."
"Bull!" Liang Meijuan turned to her husband. "Chen Zhaojun, control your son!"
Chen Zhaojun, veteran of countless mother-son skirmishes, weighed his options. "Smoking's premature," he declared, pocketing the cigarettes. "Save it for college networking."
*So Dad gets free smokes. Typical.* Chen chuckled inwardly. *Well, consider it a homecoming gift.*
At dinner, Liang Meijuan broached her plan. "We'll both take leave to drop him at university."
Chen Zhaojun nodded. Chen shook his head. "I'll go alone. Keep your money."
"Alone? With thousands in cash? You'll get robbed!"
"I did it last time," Chen muttered, recalling 2002's nerve-wracking bus ride with tuition stuffed in his socks. Louder, he added, "If we qualified for student loans, I'd apply. Fake poverty documents? Not my style."
Liang Meijuan slammed her chopsticks. "We're not rich, but we're not beggars! Focus on studying, not schemes!"
Chen leaned back. "First semester's on you. After that, I'll pay my own way."
"You'll do no such thing!"
"Watch me."
"Chen Zhaojun! Say something!"
The patriarch chewed slowly. "A man should test himself… but grades matter too."
Liang Meijuan threw up her hands. "You and your 'independence'! He was so sweet as a boy! Now he's… this!"
The 2-1 vote upheld Chen's plans. That night, Liang Meijuan grumbled in bed while Chen Zhaojun soothed her. "He's not book-smart, but his instincts? Sharp. That'll take him far."
In their previous life, Chen's failed startups had honed a resilience that eventually built his empire—a tenacity Chen Zhaojun had quietly nurtured.
"When did he grow up?" Liang Meijuan whispered.
Her husband smiled. "Our son's becoming a man."
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