It had been two days since Mǐn-huá came downstairs to join them for dinner. Yesterday, she said nothing, letting the unfamiliar rhythm of their shared meals wash over her. But tonight, her silence is sharp, coiled like a predator ready to strike.
Hào Jié sits in her spot.
Not that Mǐn-huá has a proper chair anymore—her wheelchair is her seat now.
Her wheelchair is parked at the end of the table, the place her father once occupied before he stopped coming home. For a fleeting moment, it feels like she's taken his place as the head of the family.
But the thought quickly fades, replaced by a stark discomfort: the table is too high, her wheelchair too low.
"Why are you looking at me like that? Hurry up and start the prayer," she says. She would have insisted on it yesterday, but interrupting mid-meal to re-bless food that was already half-eaten felt pointless.
They aren't praying to Buddha but to God.
Christianity became part of their family sixty years ago.
Her brother, Lài Yǔ-péng, glances at her, his expression something passably serious—though the hint of a smirk betrays him.
Always trying to be someone he's not. He wants to be their father, mimicking his mannerisms, down to the way he dresses and carries himself. A shame, really, since he couldn't even claim the head of the table.
"It makes Jié uncomfortable," he says finally, the corners of his mouth twitching despite his best effort to appear sincere. "You could just pray quietly to yourself."
If he weren't so busy trying to play pretend, he'd have just said outright, "We don't pray like that anymore. Just do it in your head." But no, he always had to take the long way around, especially when he knew she'd bless the food just to throw shade at him.
Mǐn-huá narrows her eyes, her fingers tapping lightly against the armrest of her wheelchair. "Quietly to myself?" she echoes, her tone dripping with sarcasm. "Is that what we're doing now? Pretending God doesn't deserve a moment of our time just because someone at the table feels 'uncomfortable'?"
Yǔ-péng sighs, leaning back in his chair as if preparing for the incoming storm. "It's not about that, Mǐn-huá. It's about keeping things... peaceful."
"Peaceful," she repeats, her voice sharp and cutting. "Of course. God forbid I disrupt the delicate harmony of your dinners—the ones where we all sit around these chairs, pretending we're a perfect family while Father's seat stays empty."
Hào Jié, ever the picture of practiced calm, lets out a soft sigh, her expression serene yet vaguely patronizing. She picks up her chopsticks with deliberate grace, tapping them lightly against her bowl before speaking.
"Jiejie," she begins, her voice smooth, almost a purr. "We're not pretending anything. Life moves on, whether we like it or not. I know it's hard for you to see that right now, but maybe… if you gave it a chance, you'd feel it too a little peace."
The way she says "peace" makes Mǐn-huá's skin crawl. It's so polished, so insincere, like a layer of gloss over something rotten.
"If I still had the strength in my legs," she begins, her words deliberate, like a blade being drawn, "I wouldn't waste it dragging you anywhere. I'd stand over you and make sure you remembered your place—beneath me."
Hào Jié's serene mask falters, her mouth opening slightly in shock before snapping shut. She tilts her head, trying to regain her composure, her voice soft and saccharine. "Jiejie, I think you're misunderstanding—"
"You don't get to sit there and speak to me like we're equals, like you belong here. You're not my meimei, and you never will be. I don't even know why you're here. Gèng-xīn, why is she here?" she snaps, turning to him.
Shǐ Gèng-xīn, who had been uncharacteristically silent throughout the exchange, froze. His chopsticks clattered as he placed them down, his gaze darting nervously between Mǐn-huá and Hào Jié.
"She's here because she cares about this family," he said finally, his tone tense. "She's trying to help."
"Help?" Mǐn-huá's laugh was cold and cutting. "By playing house with you behind my back? Don't lie to me. I saw the photos. I saw the video."
Hào Jié's face paled, her composure faltering. Gèng-xīn opened his mouth, but Mǐn-huá didn't let him speak.
"You called her your girlfriend. On camera. In front of the world." Her voice was sharp, each word a dagger. "So tell me, why are either of you still sitting at this table?"
The silence that followed was deafening.
Mrs. Lai covers her mouth and waves a hand for the butler to take her plate away, as if she's sick of it.
She said nothing, because deep down, she knew her daughter was right—and the truth of it sat like a stone in her gut, heavy and cold, impossible to ignore.
Later that night, news broke on Weibo. Rumors of an affair, photos of Hào Jié and Gèng-xīn together in a hotel, spread like wildfire. The scandal made the top headlines, forcing the Shǐ family to call off the engagement.
That night, lying on her bed, Mǐn-huá scrolled through the aftermath on her phone. Her thumb hovered over the screen, pausing briefly before swiping. Then, a notification popped up—a message from an old friend, someone who hadn't spoken to her in over a year.
For a moment, she stared at the screen, unsure whether to open it.
Just then, there were rapid knocks, like the death drum of Yama at her door.
"You left your bag downstairs."
Yǔ-péng yells, knocking again. He's referring to her wheelchair bag, packed with medical supplies, her spare phone charger, and a few personal items she doesn't think she needs right now. But she knows he won't stop until she acknowledges him, so she drags herself back into her chair from the bed, exhales deeply, and rolls toward the door.
With a reluctant sigh, she opens it, the creak of the door cutting through the silence between them.
"Here," he says, forcing a smile, though it doesn't quite reach his eyes.
Mǐn-huá glances at the bag, then at him, narrowing her gaze. The bag is handed to her like a peace offering, but she knows better than to believe that's all there is. Yǔ-péng hates climbing stairs—he wouldn't have come all the way up here just to give her a bag.
He hesitates, just for a moment, and then speaks again, his voice more careful. "I need to ask you something."
She doesn't react, just holds his gaze, silently waiting for him to continue.
*
The mahjong house is dim, its air thick with the scent of incense and stale cigarettes. The clattering of tiles, the rhythmic scratching of pens on score sheets, and the hum of low conversation create a constant background buzz. The fluorescent lights above buzz intermittently, flickering like tired stars, casting harsh shadows on the worn wooden tables.
As Yǔ-péng looks around, his eyes scanning the tables, he mutters under his breath, "Fu Lanying should be here by now." His voice is tight, almost as if the words were forced out.
Mǐn-huá glances up at him, her expression unreadable as she pushes her wheelchair forward with a slight groan of the wheels. "Should be? He's late?"
Yǔ-péng doesn't respond immediately, his focus still on the crowd of players hunched over their games, the soft thud of tiles being set down, and the occasional burst of laughter. He shifts his weight uncomfortably, clearly impatient.
"Late, yes," he says, his tone now a little more clipped. "But Lanying's never late."
"Let's head back then," Mǐn-huá suggests, her voice cutting through the haze of smoke and chatter, her eyes narrowing slightly. "If he's not coming, there's no reason for us to wait."
Yǔ-péng hesitates for a moment, glancing at her, then at the door leading out. He chews on his bottom lip as if weighing his options.