With winter's arrival came fluttering snowflakes.
Ten miles around, it was cloaked in silver and white.
However, the faces of the people in the Wanglou Brigade were as rosy as flowers, their joy from the grain distribution never fading.
The production team that the Lu Family belonged to had a slightly higher wage than last year, but after deducting food expenses and various fees, the Lu Family only received three yuan eighty-five cents, nearly becoming indebted. It was not even enough to cover the children's school fees for the next term.
"Thank God we're not short of money, otherwise how could we live?" Feng Qingxue silently thanked her luck.
Days passed and seven-month-old Xibao was finally able to roll over. Resting on his stomach, head held high, he clutched his tiny fists and supported his body, all the while fixedly staring at Feng Qingxue, who was reading.
