Feng Qingxue took a deep breath, then slowly exhaled.
She felt a bitter-sweet sorrow.
Sorrow over an orphaned child of a martyr and the hilarity of the same child, whom a production brigade could not afford, seeking her out for care.
"Uncle Song, it's not that I don't want to help, but that I can't, and there's no way around it," Feng Qingxue uttered helplessly. "Even with the money and grain tickets that my spouse and I send, your entire production brigade cannot support a single child of a martyr. How can I alone presume to support him? In my home, there is an elderly and five little ones, and by next year it will be six little ones. I believe you are aware of how life is in the rural areas."
Old man Song was not a fool; he certainly heard the sarcasm in Feng Qingxue's words. "I...I just don't know what else to do anymore."
He mumbled to himself, repeating over and over again.
