His sister's obsession with cleanliness was a professional hazard; sometimes she felt the need to wash her hands with disinfectant, as if she couldn't stand it unless she scrubbed a layer of skin off. Although he hadn't reached that stage yet, under his sister's subtle influence, he too had developed a bit of germaphobia.
He opened the door, ready to head to the washroom to wash up, while outside, Ren's mother was helping Wu Liangliang wash his hands. Even with assistance, Wu Liangliang was reluctant, flinching at first, then relenting when cajoled with promises of treats. Ren's mother doted on her grandson as if he were an emperor—she was just short of kneeling down and saying,
"Your highness, your servant is here to wash your face, to change your clothes, to wipe your bottom." Tang Xincheng shuddered at the thought, his scalp tingling with discomfort.
This wasn't raising a child; it was fattening up a pig for slaughter—to eat its meat.
