Tieniu rushed back before dark, pulling a cart full of goods. When he unloaded at home, he wouldn’t let his husband lift a finger. He said first, “Those potato noodles you love—I asked around the village, and everyone bought some. We bought a whole lot of them.”

Tang Xianling：！！！

He had been about to move the basket of duck eggs, but upon hearing this, he immediately rushed over and hugged Tieniu.

His eyes brimming with a foodie’s delight, he said cheerfully, “Oh my, oh my, we really are on the same wavelength! I was just feeling bad for not reminding you to buy potato noodles, and look—you bought some!”

“These potato noodles are so delicious.”

Huangfu Tieniu wrapped one arm around his husband’s slender waist, grinning like a fool with unbridled joy, and said, “I know.”

“Here, take it—it’s right there in that little basket.”

Huangfu Tieniu said he was just pointing the way, but in reality, he personally lifted the small basket off the cart.

Tang Xianling kept saying, “Let me, let me,” and took the basket himself. It wasn’t very heavy—potato noodles aren’t that heavy to begin with—so he carried the small basket to the kitchen. Tieniu was unloading goods in the courtyard, mainly duck eggs, which he set aside to be salted the next day.

Jiang Yun boiled some water and reheated the evening meal she’d set aside for Tieniu.

The family of three went about their respective tasks; not a single person was idle. Before long, the courtyard was tidied up. The mule went into the stable to eat some hay and rest. Tang Xianling drew some hot water for Tieniu to wash his hands and face, chatting with him as he did so about what they’d done that day.

“Those chestnuts weren’t that good; I only ate half a bag.”

Huangfu Tieniu was wiping his face with a warm washcloth and couldn’t help but reply to his husband, his voice sounding a bit muffled: “I’ll eat the other half.”

“……” Tang Xianling: “You’re eating what I roasted—I roasted them really well, and I saved them for you.”

“The half-pack that wasn’t so good—I’ll peel them open. We’ll cook them into porridge tomorrow.”

He set down the washcloth, revealing a smiling face, and looked earnestly at his husband.

Xianling really does look out for him.

“All right, whatever you say,” he replied.

Tang Xianling felt his face grow hot under that gaze. Tieniu’s eyes were too intense, his feelings too obvious—they practically screamed “I love Tang Xianling” in big, bold letters—and he couldn’t help but feel a little shy. “You’re such a goofball,” he said. “Hurry up and eat once you’re done washing up. The food’s all warmed up.”

“Got it.”

The rice had been piping hot just a moment ago, but now it was just the right temperature.

Huangfu Tieniu ate in the main hall, while Big Boss Tang settled onto his reclining sofa. As he ate, Huangfu Tieniu chatted about village life—the daily routines of ordinary folk, day in and day out, with nothing much to report: Hainiu had grown a little taller, the family’s pigs were doing quite well, and Uncle Zhang and Uncle Wang had said they’d invite them back for a pig-slaughter feast before the New Year.

“I’ve never been to a pig-slaughter feast before. Since this pig was raised by Hainiu, I’ll definitely have to eat it—wait, that’s not right,” Tang Xianling said at this point. “I remember Uncle only bought the piglets in mid-August; they wouldn’t be ready by the New Year, would they?”

Tieniu: “They got an old sow with their piglets.”

“That works.” Tang Xianling then brought up the sheep they’d bought today. “I’ll have the slaughterhouse take care of it. It’s cold enough to store the meat outside, but if we slaughter it at home, it’ll be a bloody mess.”

Huangfu Tieniu: “Alright, then all we need to do tomorrow is chop up the lamb meat and ribs.”

They definitely won’t be able to sell a whole sheep at home, but the lambs should be fine. Tang Xianling added, “As for the offal, I’ll make a pot of offal soup and add some potato starch to it.”

As the two chatted, the night grew darker and darker.

His mother went to bed.

Tang Xianling’s voice grew faint. Huangfu Tieniu first cleared away the bowls and chopsticks, washed his hands, then returned to carry his husband across his arms back to the bedroom to sleep. Tang Xianling woke up but was too lazy to move, calling out, “I haven’t taken off my clothes yet.”

“Let me do it,” Huangfu Tieniu said, helping Xianling undress.

Tang Xianling mumbled to himself, thinking about his “macho” remarks from earlier that day, and found himself amused. Huangfu Tieniu watched him and felt a warm, happy glow in his heart—it was just taking off some clothes, yet his husband was laughing as if he’d gained some great advantage.

How adorable.

He couldn’t resist giving him a kiss.

“Let’s go to sleep.”

Since they had work to do during the week, the couple usually didn’t make love—mainly because Huangfu Tieniu didn’t want his husband to get too tired—but by Friday, Tang Xianling was already getting restless.

The next day, while it was still dark, there was a commotion in the courtyard—it was Cui Dabao and his father.

Father Cui’s arm had healed by now, and he’d been lending his son a hand ever since.

Big Boss Tang Xianling had also “arranged” a formal job for Cui Dabao’s father, paying him the same wage as Aunt Tong and A-Liang.

They slept until nearly eight o’clock, when the courtyard finally came to life.

Xiao Mi arrived and began slaughtering and cleaning the chickens in the courtyard, while Huangfu Tieniu chopped up the sheep bones; he was strong, so he handled whatever needed to be done.

Although Xiao Mi was a kitchen helper, he was still practically a teenager, so for some tasks, Tieniu would step in if he could—it went faster that way.

Xiao Mi knew that Mr. and Mr. Tang were both wonderful people, and Aunt Jiang was kind as well.

There wasn’t a single bad person at the Tang family’s shop.

Tang Xianling started cooking breakfast—chestnut and millet porridge, slightly sweet—while washing and preparing the mutton offal, chopping enough to fill a small bowl.

“Wu-ger, are you making mutton offal soup?” Jiang Yun asked.

Tang Xianling: “I’ve been craving it. I’ll cook a pot today. At noon, Sister Tong and A-Liang, let the customers know we’ve added a new dish to the menu today.”

Brother Tang’s restaurant introduced new dishes from time to time, so Sister Tong and A-Liang were already used to it.

Watching Wu-ger prepare the lamb bones to make the broth, Jiang Yun couldn’t help but think of Old Tang. “He really is heartless—he’d rather take the recipe to the grave than tell us, his wife and children. He doesn’t treat us like family.”

Hearing these words, Mrs. Tong and A-Liang couldn’t help but think of their own situation, and they both felt a twinge of bitterness.

“The mutton soup I’m making—just wait to drink it, Mother.” Tang Xianling wasn’t one for sentimentality; after all, he’d only spent a few months with Old Tang, so his tone remained calm: “I don’t need it. I’ll take care of it myself.”

As Jiang Yun got older, she would sometimes let out a sigh of regret. If someone had responded with words of comfort, she might have gotten carried away and said too much, but every time Wu-ger brought up these “looking back on hardships” topics, he would bluntly change the subject without responding. Over time, Jiang Yun stopped bringing them up.

But sometimes she would talk about it with Zou Ling, Zhou Xiangping, and even her eldest daughter, Tang Qiao.

When she brought up the past, she’d cry a little for herself. The others would shed a few tears too—not necessarily out of sympathy for Jiang Yun, though that might have been part of it—but more because Jiang Yun’s story reminded them of their own struggles, and they’d cry over their own heartache and suffering.

Today the sky was a bit overcast, and the temperature had dropped again.

Mrs. Tong, A-Liang, came from the front of the shop to the back room to find Aunt Jiang, saying that the restaurant was a bit dim.

“Then light the lanterns,” Jiang Yun said, grabbing the key to fetch candles from the storeroom.

It was indeed windy—not a strong wind, but a cold one that made people’s faces wrinkle a bit. A little past nine, the shop door opened, and a few scattered customers were the first to enter the restaurant. They chose seats near the door, originally hoping for better lighting, but the wind made them feel even colder.

Sitting there motionless made them even colder.

“Why don’t you sit in the back for a while?”

“Sure.”

The two of them moved to seats in the back.

Aunt Tong and A-Liang came over to light the lanterns while pouring tea for the customers. The customers asked with familiarity, “What’s Mr. Tang cooking today?” and “Do you have any fresh dishes today?”

“Yes, Mr. Tang made mutton offal soup today,” Mrs. Tong replied.

The guest’s eyes lit up. “Mutton soup, huh?” It suddenly occurred to him that Mr. Tang’s restaurant had originally specialized in mutton soup; according to residents of Baxing District, the Tang family’s mutton soup was incredibly fragrant.

Mr. Tang’s father was a master at making mutton soup.

“Why is it offal soup?” another customer asked, sounding a bit put off. He didn’t like offal—he found it smelly—and thought plain mutton soup would be much better.

Mrs. Tong said, “Mr. Tang made it. Why don’t you give it a try? It’s getting cold out—a bowl of hot mutton offal soup in the morning will warm you right up.”

“All right. How much is a bowl of noodles?”

“Ten wen a bowl. It comes with some potato starch noodles, but no flatbread. If you’d like some flatbread, we’ve got some freshly made—five wen a plate,” Mrs. Tong replied.

The two diners had arrived early; the shop was nearly empty, and it was cold. Hearing how cheap the prices were, they both readily ordered two bowls and a plate of flatbreads, along with one meat dish and one vegetable dish.

Mrs. Tong went to the back to prepare the dishes.

Xiao Mi kneaded the dough and mixed the shortening. Tang Xianling finished cooking the mutton offal soup, then began making the flatbreads: spreading the shortening, rolling the dough into a cylinder, flattening it, and rolling it out. He brushed a layer of oil on the skillet and cooked them that way. Since the flatbreads weren’t too greasy, they came out with a surface of crispy, flaky golden threads in concentric circles, just like mosquito coils.

“Mi, chop a bowl of scallions,” Tang Xianling said after frying three flatbreads.

It’s cold outside, so the flatbreads taste best when they’re hot.

Xiao Mi replied and hurried to the basket to fetch some washed scallions, which she chopped into a bowl of scallion greens.

A large pot of mutton offal soup on the big stove was already giving off a fragrant aroma. Tang Xianling carried out the final step: adding seasonings to the bottom of each bowl—pepper, sesame oil, and homemade evodia powder. He poured a large ladleful of mutton offal soup into each bowl to dissolve the seasonings at the bottom, then scooped out the offal, followed by another spoonful of soup.

Top it off with the chopped scallions.

All set.

Tang Xianling called for someone to carry the meal out.

Two bowls of mutton offal soup and a plate of triangular-shaped flatbreads.

“Let’s eat too,” Tang Xianling said.

Xiao Mi had been salivating for a while already. Now, moving with nimble hands, he prepared the same dish for everyone in the shop just as Boss Tang had seasoned it earlier. The mutton offal soup was piping hot, so there was no need to carry it into the main room—they simply dug in at the table under the tree in the courtyard.

The flatbreads Mr. Tang had baked were light and crispy; they were fragrant even eaten on their own, but if you dipped them in the mutton offal soup—

The diner in front.

“Wow, that smells great.” The customer looked down at the mutton offal soup in front of him, topped with bright green scallion greens. The distinctive aroma of the mutton soup wafted toward him. He couldn’t resist—he blew on it, lifted the bowl, and took a sip. Instantly, his eyes lit up. “Absolutely amazing!”

“Mr. Tang’s father really is a master of mutton soup—Mr. Tang has learned the art to perfection.”

The diner across from him had initially been a bit hesitant about the mutton offal soup, but upon hearing his companion’s words, he picked up a spoon, scooped a mouthful, blew on it to cool it, and took a sip. It was truly extraordinary—this mutton offal soup had none of the gamey or pungent odor typically associated with offal. With every sip, he tasted only the rich umami of the mutton soup, the bold flavor of the scallions, and the spicy kick of pepper and evodia.

The rich, complex flavor was truly captivating.

“Try the flatbread next,” his friend suggested.

The flatbread was so crispy it crumbled to pieces. I picked it up with my chopsticks, dipped it briefly in the mutton offal soup, and then popped it into my mouth—

“Wow, this really hits the spot.”

“You’ve got to have mutton soup for winter tonic.”

“So comforting, so comforting.”

Outside, the cold wind and chill bite, but inside, sipping the steaming hot mutton offal soup, my body and hands warm up after just a few sips. The different cuts of mutton inside each have their own distinct texture—some are crisp, some tender, and some have a satisfying chew.

Delicious food and drink.

Most importantly, it’s not expensive—it’s really, really cheap.

Right next door was Cui Dabao’s breakfast shop. After he’d sold out of his breakfast items, his father called him over to have some mutton offal soup, saying, “The owner cooked up a pot and saved some for the two of us. You go ahead and have some; I’ll clean up.”

Even the customers who had just picked up their pot-sticker buns didn’t bat an eye at this.

In all of Baxing District, when it comes to protecting and doting on his son, who could compare to Father Cui?!

Cui Dabao: “Dad, you go ahead and have some. Since they saved it all for me, there’s no rush. I’ll go once I’m done here.”

The diners, who had been watching the father-son exchange with amusement, suddenly realized something.

“Has Mr. Tang made mutton offal soup?”

Father Cui: “That’s right. It smells so good—just the aroma warms me up.”

“Uncle Cui, do you know how much a bowl costs?” The diner holding a pot cake swallowed hard. The Tang Family Restaurant was expensive, and he usually couldn’t bring himself to eat out, but in the fall and winter, he just had to have some mutton soup—it had been so long since he’d had any.

Father Cui: “Ten wen a bowl.”

No sooner had he finished speaking than the regular customer was seen heading to the restaurant next door with his pot-bread in hand. Before long, a loud voice rang out: “Sister Tong, give me a bowl of mutton offal soup—no bread, I brought my own bread.”

One customer led to another. As this regular sat at a table by the door, passersby stopped to look, curious: Why had this man entered Tang’s Restaurant? Could he be hosting a banquet? Upon asking, they learned that Mr. Tang was serving mutton offal soup—and it wasn’t expensive, at ten wen a bowl—so they immediately crowded around the table.

Those who found the flatbreads too expensive would go next door to Lu’s to buy steamed buns.

Early in the morning, as soon as the shop opened, it was packed to the brim in no time.

There were customers from both the outer and inner quarters, with more from the inner quarter. Even before the mutton soup was served, they were already sighing with nostalgia, reminiscing about Old Tang’s mutton soup and how delicious it was. They never imagined they’d be able to enjoy mutton soup again after Old Tang had passed away.

“Didn’t they say Old Tang kept his recipe a secret and never taught it to anyone?” someone from the neighborhood recalled.

Someone chimed in: “That’s right. I remember Mr. Tang first made a name for himself by cooking pork. If Old Tang had really kept the secret recipe, why would Mr. Tang still bother cooking pork?”

It’s so much easier to just take over a ready-made mutton soup and dumpling shop.

“They’re father and son, after all. Maybe Old Tang did leave it to him—how would we outsiders know?”

No sooner had he finished speaking than someone took a sip of the mutton offal soup. After just one mouthful, he shook his head and said it wasn’t right.

“?”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“Doesn’t it taste right? Isn’t it good?”

“That can’t be. Old Tang’s mutton soup with noodles has been sold in Baxing District for twenty or thirty years.”

How could it possibly taste bad?

The diner from Benfang who had just said something was off: “It’s good, but the flavor isn’t quite the same as the traditional mutton soup. The traditional version has a slightly thicker broth, a whitish base, and a stronger mutton flavor. The broth Mr. Tang makes here is also made from lamb bones, but it’s a bit clearer. Paired with the lamb offal, you’ll know the difference once you try it.”

He wasn’t trying to pit the father and son against each other or judge who was better; he just felt that Mr. Tang’s mutton offal soup suited his taste better. It’s delicious.

Hearing this, everyone took a sip. Some were pleasantly surprised and agreed it was indeed good, while others said it wasn’t as good as Lao Tang’s—everyone has different tastes, so that’s no big deal.

“But to say that Mr. Tang learned his recipe from his father’s secret formula—that’s just not right.”

Everyone nodded. They’d had Old Tang’s mutton soup so many times—how could they possibly confuse the two? Old Tang’s didn’t taste like this.

Those who missed Old Tang’s mutton soup did so simply because he had passed away, and because they’d grown attached to it after drinking it since childhood—but when it came down to the actual taste, opinions varied.

“Anyway, I think Mr. Tang’s mutton offal soup tastes better than Li’s.”

“You’re just stirring up trouble for Mr. Tang with that.”

Someone retorted, “It’s fine. Old Li sells it year-round, but at Mr. Tang’s, you’d better eat your fill now. Once the depths of winter are over and spring arrives, Mr. Tang might not sell mutton anymore.”

That’s true.

The customer who had just said that Mr. Tang’s mutton offal soup wasn’t as good as Old Tang’s, upon hearing this, hurriedly added, “I’d better come back tomorrow morning for another bowl.” He went over to ask Mrs. Tong, but after looking around, he saw she wasn’t there—only her husband, the man named A-Liang, was present. “Will Mr. Tang still be serving mutton offal soup tomorrow?”

“I don’t know. I’ll ask.” A-Liang had just finished his soup and handed the bowl to Mrs. Tong to drink; he stayed in the shop to tend to the customers.

A moment later, A-Liang returned with the answer: “Our boss said that if today’s lamb dishes aren’t sold out, there won’t be any mutton offal soup tomorrow.”

Diner: !!!

They wished they had bigger stomachs so they could have another bowl.

Someone chuckled, “I told you so, Old Li, don’t worry. You’ve got to keep dropping by Mr. Tang’s place—you’ll only get to enjoy a delicious meal if you happen to stumble upon it by chance.”

Everyone laughed heartily.

At Li’s Mutton Offal Soup, when Boss Li heard that the Tang family had also made mutton offal soup that morning, his heart skipped a beat. The regulars, noticing the change in Old Li’s expression, teased him cheerfully.

“Don’t worry, they don’t sell it every day,” 

“I heard it’ll be gone by tomorrow,” 

“Just don’t end up like Old Zhao’s place—”

As soon as Old Li heard “Old Zhao’s,” he quickly said, “My family wouldn’t do anything that harmful to others.”

Old Zhao’s sugar-oil pancake shop used to be doing just fine, but he just had to pick a fight with the Tang family. One incident would’ve been bad enough, but then he sent his own son to pee in the Tang family’s milk barrel—that was absolutely despicable. In the food business, you rely on customers from the Baxing District and Dingyi District neighborhoods. Now who dares to buy anything from Old Zhao’s shop anymore?

That shop has been closed ever since—what a shame.

Since business was simply unsustainable, renting it out was at least a way to make some cash.

That big pot of mutton soup sold out first thing in the morning. Latecomers who heard it was sold out—only to have their craving for mutton soup whetted—had no choice but to head over to Li’s. As a result, Li’s did exceptionally well that morning.

Old Li: Heh heh heh heh.

He was over the moon.

He was, in a way, riding on Mr. Tang’s coattails. Later, he thought to himself: since the Tang family runs a restaurant, they probably wouldn’t bother with such a small-time deal as mutton offal soup at ten wen a bowl—they cater to high-end customers. So he didn’t need to worry too much.

The Tang family’s restaurant offered a menu of lamb dishes that were all popular with diners.

Cumin-spiced lamb ribs, hand-torn lamb rice, lamb and radish soup, and a large pot of lamb offal soup sold every other day—it was cheap. Opening a little after nine in the morning, they mostly served customers from the neighborhood, who would come in holding pot-sticker buns bought from the breakfast shop next door. They’d devour a big bowl of lamb offal soup, eating and drinking it all down, until their noses and foreheads were covered in warm sweat. It drove away the chill and left them feeling comfortable.

That day, the breakfast shop closed for the day.

“Cui Dabao, when’s Douzi’s due date? Is it coming up soon?” Tang Xianling asked.

“The midwife checked and said there are still about ten days to go.” Cui Dabao felt a little nervous when his boss brought it up.

Tang Xianling said, “Then you’ll work until the end of the month. Let the customers know—I’ve written a notice to post on the door. The breakfast shop will be closed for a month.”

There were only six days left until the end of the month.

Cui Dabao panicked. “Why close for a whole month?”

“Maternity leave,” Tang Xianling said, furrowing his brow slightly. “Our business is counting on you right now. Normally, maternity leave should last at least three months.”

Three months is definitely out of the question.

“I’ll give you one month off and compensate you for three months’ wages.”

Not only was Cui Dabao flustered, but even Father Cui standing beside him was taken aback. The father and son thought their boss was doing them a favor out of kindness, a deliberate act of generosity, so they hurriedly refused. Cui Dabao said, “I’m a man—I don’t give birth. I’ve never heard of anyone getting maternity leave.”

Father Cui said, “We wouldn’t dare to be so presumptuous—how could we possibly take a month off and still get three months’ cash?”

Tang Xianling explained to the two of them, “This isn’t about cutting you any special favors. At our shop, regardless of whether an employee is a man or a woman, as long as their spouse gives birth, they’re granted one month of paid maternity leave. If the employee gives birth themselves, they get three months of paid leave.”

“When Douzi has given birth, you need to take good care of him during his postpartum recovery and learn how to look after the baby.”

Cui Dabao nodded repeatedly as he listened.

“And you, Uncle Cui,” Tang Xianling said, looking over at him.

Father Cui grew nervous. What was he up to?

“You don’t get maternity leave. However, since Cui Dabao won’t be able to sell breakfast that month, you’ll receive your base salary of 200 wen—but no three months’ worth of back pay.” Tang Xianling was simply following the rules.

As for which regulations?

Big Boss Tang has the final say!

Upon hearing he wouldn’t lose three months’ cash, Father Cui first let out a huge sigh of relief, but then felt even those 200 wen were too much—yet he dared not say a word. Whatever Boss Tang said went.

Seeing that the other employees were all present, Tang Xianling said, “The same rules apply to all restaurant staff.”

Mrs. Tong laughed out loud, “At my age, I wouldn’t dare have a baby just for three months’ money—and I couldn’t even have one anyway.”

A-Liang smiled wryly.

“Come on, Xiao Mi, stick it out for a few more years, and once you get married, you’ll be able to earn that,” Mrs. Tong teased.

Xiao Mi blushed all the way to the nape of his neck. Partly he was embarrassed, but he also couldn’t help thinking—he wanted to keep working at the Tang Family Restaurant forever.

“Aunt Tong and A-Liang, don’t be envious. Having a child is a big deal—you can’t just go about it recklessly for the sake of money. Just keep doing your jobs well, and I’ll make sure to give you both a year-end bonus,” said Tang Xianling.

Sister Tong and A-Liang quickly protested: “It’s not like that,” “We aren’t thinking about getting more cash,” and “Boss, that’s not what I meant.”

Tang Xianling waved his hand, indicating he understood without needing further explanation.

Then he said to Cui Dabao, “You’ve found a midwife, and we still need to find a doctor. Plus, with you and Uncle Cui—two grown men—there’s got to be a woman or a ger around to take care of Douzi during his postpartum recovery. He’s too shy to ask for help himself—”

“Douzi’s sister-in-law said she’d come.”

Tang Xianling pursed his lips and asked, “Does Douzi get along well with his brother and sister-in-law?”

“Of course not—she used to be quite harsh on Douzi.” As soon as Cui Dabao finished speaking, he realized what this meant: he now had a job to do. Back when Douzi was pregnant but not yet so heavy, the two of them had taken time off to return to the village and share the happy news at their parents’ graves.

His older brother and sister-in-law had smiled and said, “Once Douzi gives birth, let your sister-in-law—or me—come and take care of him during his postpartum confinement.”

These days, when a woman gives birth and enters her postpartum confinement, it’s usually the family’s elders or relatives who come to take care of her.

The Cui family, however, was small and somewhat estranged; they didn’t socialize much on a daily basis. They couldn’t very well wait until they needed help to ask for it—that wouldn’t be appropriate. Cui Dabao was hesitant at first, but figured that if it came down to it, his sister-in-law could help. He thought that since he’d be returning early every day to keep an eye on things, surely his sister-in-law wouldn’t treat Douzi harshly right there in the Cui family courtyard?

He was oversimplifying things.

“You’d be better off spending some money to hire a skilled helper,” Tang Xianling said.

Cui Dabao agreed as soon as he heard it. “Then I’ll start looking for someone as soon as I get back.”

“Mm-hmm. Tomorrow, let your customers know in advance that the restaurant will close for a month starting at the end of the month. Make sure everything’s taken care of—the midwife, the doctor, and the postpartum care nurse.” Though still young, Boss Tang stood before Cui Dabao, speaking with the firm authority of an elder.

Cui Dabao took his advice and instructions to heart, agreeing earnestly.

“All right, that’s settled. Since you two aren’t staying for lunch, you can head back now.” Tang Xianling dismissed them.

His family usually provided lunch for Mr. Cui and his son, but since Douzi’s due date was approaching and he was feeling sluggish, both of them were worried about him. They hadn’t eaten lunch at his place for over a month—they’d been heading home as soon as they finished selling and cleaning up in the morning.

“It’s getting cold; you should buy some coal, too.”

“Got it, boss,” Cui Dabao called out.

Tang Xianling really had no end to his worries.

On the second week of the month, the breakfast shop was still open—Cui Dabao had said he wouldn’t take the second week off anymore, but would work six days straight until the end of the month. Tang Xianling didn’t say anything when he heard this; the father and son were the kind of people who remembered a favor. Back when the Cui family was going through a tough time, he’d given Cui Dabao a job, which for Father Cui had been nothing short of a lifeline.

Tang Xianling never once suspected anything when he took the money from the breakfast shop.

The father and son were open and honest, and had a strong sense of integrity.

Early Saturday morning, Tang Xianling and Tieniu went out to buy supplies. Since it had turned cold, it looked like rain when they woke up, but when they touched it, it didn’t feel like rain—it had a slightly icy, crystalline texture. Tieniu said it was snow.

So they didn’t take their mother along that early morning.

After finishing their shopping and restocking, Tang Xianling was about to head back when Tieniu reminded him, “We need to buy some soft fabric.”

“What soft cloth?” Tang Xianling asked, then suddenly remembered, “Right, right, right—I made an appointment with Zou Ling and Sanniang to sew a belly band for the baby this weekend…”

Huangfu Tieniu smiled as he touched his husband’s cheek—it felt a bit cold—“I’ll buy you a scarf, too.”

“Huh?” Tang Xianling was momentarily confused, then it dawned on him: “A scarf! Okay, I’ll buy one for Mother and you too. You’ll wear them as soon as we get home—and don’t you dare say you’re hot!”

As soon as the weather turned cold, Tieniu’s best qualities came to the fore—the guy was like a portable heater.

As soon as autumn set in, Tang Xianling slept soundly; snuggled up next to Tieniu, the bed was toasty warm. A few days ago, after eating too much lamb, Big Boss Tang even had a nosebleed from the heat—uh, and things were a bit off at night, too. He was going through “spring fever.”