Volume One, Chapter 28: Is Pride More Important? Family Ties Are Nonsense—Better Off Without Them!

Bang!

His pearwood cane struck hard against the flagstone floor, echoing with a heavy thud that seemed to make the entire hall tremble.

“You worthless wretch!”

The old patriarch’s voice erupted like thunder, his fury nearly bursting forth. “Is my reputation less important than your wife’s pitiful medicine money? Or your daughter’s pair of shabby shoes?”

“If I lose face before my old friend, it’s the entire Chen family’s honor that’s disgraced! Do you even understand what filial piety is? What family honor and shame mean?”

Terrified by this storm of wrath, Chen Zhonghe’s whole body shuddered. The flicker of courage he’d just gathered vanished instantly.

He wished to retort, to fight for his poor wife and daughter, even if only for the smallest sliver of their pitiful rights. But the words caught in his throat—crushed beneath the years of accumulated authority of the family head and the suffocating weight of “filial duty.” Bitter resentment lodged in his chest, choking him.

Old Madam Chen immediately joined in, her shrill voice piercing the air: “Second son! Hiding money from the family, and now you have the nerve to bargain with us?”

Her beady, slanted eyes shot a scornful look at Chen Zhonghe, her face openly malicious. “Besides, your wife’s illness—what nonsense! She’s just being delicate. Some rice broth is more than enough, what makes her so precious she must have medicine?”

“As for Pingyu, a girl—nothing but a burden! She’s lucky to have even a pair of old shoes to cover her feet!”

His eldest aunt, standing by, fanned the flames with sly sarcasm, a look of schadenfreude playing at her lips. “My, second brother is getting bolder these days—only caring for his wife and children and a warm bed, not giving a thought to his parents’ dignity. If word gets out, people will laugh their heads off!”

Wang, at just the right moment, covered her mouth with a handkerchief and let out a soft, dismissive snicker. Her sly eyes glanced at Chen Zhonghe. “Second brother, you talk as if father and mother have ever shortchanged your branch of the family. Isn’t it a child’s duty to honor their parents?”

Sentence after sentence, word after word, each was a steel needle stabbing deep into Chen Zhonghe’s heart.

His face burned with shame and humiliation; he was mortified, wishing the ground would open so he could disappear.

But he couldn’t.

He could only clench his teeth, swallowing all the humiliation, rage, and resentment down with the taste of blood.

In the end, the money Chen Pingchuan brought went straight into Old Madam Chen’s purse.

She didn’t even bother to look at Chen Zhonghe again. Fishing around in her purse with clear reluctance, she finally counted out a few grimy copper coins and tossed them at his feet with a careless flick, as if throwing out garbage.

“Here, this is enough for you and your wife to buy some coarse rice for a few days. Make it last!”

The tone, the expression, was exactly how one would dismiss a beggar at the door.

A mere handful of copper coins.

Compared to those two taels of silver.

The gap was suffocating, despairing.

Chen Zhonghe bent down in silence, his hands trembling as he painstakingly gathered up the scattered coins from the cold floor. Each coin felt as heavy as a thousand pounds, weighing him down until he could barely straighten his back.

When he raised his head, he saw his parents’ self-satisfied, even boastful expressions, as if they were perfectly justified.

He saw the barely concealed gloating—even mockery—on the faces of the other family branches.

A wave of helplessness and an almost uncontrollable fury and bitterness surged through him, fierce and overwhelming, threatening to drown him entirely.

...

Chen Zhonghe staggered back home, pushing open the rickety, groaning wooden door that seemed ready to fall apart at any moment.

Inside, a dim oil lamp flickered unsteadily by the rough earthen bed, its faint light barely holding the darkness at bay.

His wife, Luo, lay weakly reclined on the cold bed, her face as pale as paper, entirely drained of color.

Hearing the door creak open, she turned her head with effort and looked at her husband, her voice hoarse and tinged with concern. “You’re back? Did father and mother call you over... is something wrong?”

Chen Zhonghe looked at his wife’s haggard face and forced a smile uglier than tears, his voice raw. “No... nothing serious. Just asking about the family. You—just rest, don’t worry yourself.”

He didn’t dare tell her the truth.

He feared she would lose her temper if she knew, and that she’d clash even more fiercely with his parents. If that happened, this so-called “home” might truly fall apart.

But Luo was sharp. Seeing her husband’s gaunt face and his reluctance to meet her eyes, she already guessed most of the truth.

She chose not to expose him.

She just sighed softly and murmured, “I know it’s hard for you. But... when will these bitter days ever end...?”

With that, she fell silent, closing her eyes as two silent streams of tears slid down her cheeks, soaking into her hair.

On the low table sat a chipped, coarse porcelain bowl, half-filled with a thin gruel so watery and clear it reflected a shadow.

Beside it, their young daughter, Pingyu, wore a pair of shoes so worn that several toes poked through the threadbare cloth. Climbing up to the bedside, the little girl reached out her thin, small hands to gently massage her mother’s legs.

“Mother, let me massage your legs. Then you won’t feel so bad...” The child’s voice was sweet and innocent, obedient and soft.

Chen Zhonghe felt as if dozens of sharp, tiny knives were sawing at his heart, slicing it apart.

The pain was so intense he could hardly breathe.

The pain twisted his insides into knots.

Unable to endure any longer, he turned away and wiped his face hard with the back of his rough hand, but the tears still wouldn’t stop.

He thought of the old patriarch, so full of pride, announcing plans for new clothes, lavish gifts for an old friend, a grand feast to display the Chen family’s “honor.”

Yet here his own wife and daughter suffered in a draughty hovel, unable to scrape together enough to eat, struggling against illness and hunger.

His son—his eight-year-old Pingchuan—was far away, serving as a servant in the Zhang household, enduring who knew what hardships.

And his own brothers—each more heartless than the last!

This so-called “family,” these so-called “relatives,” now seemed to him so strange, so cold, so utterly despairing.

Divide the family!

Luo, in the depths of her anger, had once blurted out the wish to split from the main household. Now, that thought became clearer and firmer in his mind than ever.

It was like a spark falling on dry grass, suddenly blazing up, impossible to extinguish.

Perhaps only then could their little branch—his family—truly survive.

Perhaps only then could they live like real human beings.

He clutched those icy copper coins so tightly his knuckles turned white, the coins digging sharply into his palm and bringing a stinging pain.