That one word—"Mom"—was like a gentle pluck on the deepest string in her heart, carrying a wave of warmth and ache that pulled Su Rui back to a time long, long ago—
Back to the years she spent in the orphanage.
She couldn't remember how old she was when she arrived, because for as long as she had memories, she had lived behind that iron gate.
She never knew who her parents were. It wasn't until many years later, when she returned to visit, that the now white-haired director finally told her the truth—
She had been abandoned at the orphanage doorstep.
Growing up there, she learned an unkind truth very early—
No one would like you unconditionally.
If you wanted to be kept, you had to learn to read the room, to hide your grievances behind a smile.
She was always more well-behaved than the others, quieter, her eyes carrying just the right amount of light—afraid that even the slightest misstep would get her forgotten in some corner.
She remembered it vividly—
Once, a kind-looking couple came into the yard, scanning through the crowd of children as if they were making a selection.
It didn't take long for their gaze to settle on the little girl with the brightest smile, the one who could act the most coquettish.
That girl soon walked out hand in hand with them, disappearing beyond the iron gate into the sunlight—
Leaving Su Rui standing there, staring at that small figure, her mind a blank.
In that moment, she understood—
Children who could win affection got to leave.
So, she began to perform.
She would help teachers hand out bowls, speak in a soft, sweet voice, and flash the warmest smile whenever someone's eyes landed on her.
She knew this wasn't hypocrisy—it was survival.
Finally, one day, a couple arrived—dressed in finery, stepping out of a sleek black sedan.
She locked onto them the moment she saw them—this was her ticket to a new life, her only chance to escape the cold and the hunger.
She didn't want to keep sharing a bed with a row of children, didn't want to wash her hands in icy water in winter, didn't want to eat the same food day after day, sometimes still going hungry.
She knew it wasn't the orphanage's fault—resources were limited, and there were too many children.
But she longed—longed for a place that was hers alone, for someone to care about her, for the fear of abandonment to finally end.
These thoughts—these desperate wishes—belonged to a child who had just turned four.
That was why she never had a real childhood. From the very beginning, she had worn an invisible costume, playing the role of the perfect, well-behaved child.
And after playing it for so long, she had forgotten what her true self looked like.
That day, she was chosen.
She climbed into their car, watching the iron gate shrink away through the window, her heart swelling with a joy and excitement she could hardly contain.
She thought—finally, she would have a home.
But when she stepped into that lavish house, what greeted her was not an embrace, but a voice as cold as winter—
"Don't think for a second that you're some wealthy heiress now… You're nothing but her replacement."
In that instant, Su Rui's smile froze on her lips, as if plunged into ice water.
She didn't know who "she" was, or why she was merely a substitute.
All she knew was that the voice felt like a lock—sealing her fate inside another kind of cage.