“Ah!” I was both surprised and delighted. Recalling my father’s strange laughter during our phone call, I realized he must have already been on his way. It turned out they wanted to surprise me.
I had left my phone at home when I went out, so Feng Wushuang answered the call and ended up picking up my parents.
As soon as the door cracked open, Little Rascal squeezed in first, wagging his tail furiously, clearly overjoyed. I pushed the door open and asked, “Mom, Dad, what brings you here?”
On the living room table lay two new cotton quilts and a jar that unmistakably smelled of lard—infused with star anise. Every winter, my mother would render lard to ward off the cold. The two quilts were surely stuffed with freshly picked cotton, and sleeping under them would be like being wrapped in the scent of sunshine.
On the floor was a cardboard box sealed with tape, next to a bag containing two pairs of handmade cotton shoes. Peering inside the box, I saw dried leaves cushioning dozens of farm-fresh eggs, along with a jar of chili sauce and fermented black beans.
Goodness, just the sight of that chili sauce and fermented beans made my stomach growl. I had the sudden urge to pop a few beans into my mouth and let their rich, savory flavor take over my taste buds.
My father and mother were neatly dressed—Dad in his polished old leather shoes and a vintage Mao suit, with a glasses case tucked in the pocket. Mom wore a collarless floral-patterned cotton jacket and homemade cotton shoes.
Feng Wushuang took the groceries from my hands and said with a smile, “Uncle, Auntie, please sit and rest.” Then she headed into the kitchen to start cooking.
Mom pulled me aside and bombarded me with questions about Feng Wushuang—her age, her parents’ occupations, her job.
Dad, looking smug, interjected when he heard she was a flight attendant, “That’s my boy!” Mom shot him a glare, and he quickly fell silent. I thought to myself, *Feng Wushuang sure picked the right day to come for dumplings—just when my parents decided to visit.* I quickly explained, “She’s an old classmate. Back then, people joked that we looked alike, so we played along—I became her ‘big brother,’ and she became my ‘little sister.’”
Dad butted in again, “That’s how it always starts in TV dramas—first ‘brother and sister,’ then romance.” I asked what show he was watching. He frowned, “*Meteor Shower*, and then they made a sequel, *Meteor Shower II*.”
Mom glanced at Feng Wushuang, who was busy chopping potatoes in the kitchen, and went in to help, only to be politely shooed out with assurances that she had everything under control.
Mom pulled me aside again, “I took a closer look just now—you two really do resemble each other.”
Mom had been an orphan since childhood, only knowing her name was Feng Qingyu before being adopted by my grandfather. Now, seeing another Feng who looked so much like me, she couldn’t help but make connections.
I repeatedly clarified that ours was purely a platonic friendship and that we just happened to be free today, hence the dumpling-making. Dad chimed in, “Woman, what are you thinking? There are countless people with the surname Feng—she can’t possibly be our son’s cousin!”
I stifled a laugh, remembering that popular saying: *May all lovers in the world be siblings.* Seems even cousins weren’t safe from the joke.
Seeing Mom fall silent, I knew this was a sensitive topic for her and didn’t want to press further. Dad wanted tea, so I hurried to the kitchen to boil water. Feng Wushuang teased, “So, are your parents happy with their future daughter-in-law?”
I scowled, “Mom thinks we’re long-lost cousins!” Feng Wushuang’s jaw dropped—her cherry lips could’ve fit two eggs—before she burst into laughter.
We wiped the table, set out bowls and chopsticks, uncorked the red wine to let it breathe, and prepared the glasses.
Braised pork trotters with red yeast sauce, cola chicken wings, and Lao Gan Ma potatoes were served. Mom said it wasn’t enough, so she scrambled a plate of eggs with the farm-fresh ones before boiling the dumplings. I cracked open the garlic vinegar and the homemade chili sauce.
Feng Wushuang tasted Mom’s chili sauce and couldn’t stop praising it. Mom watched her with a mix of delight and concern.
I changed the subject, asking if my parents wanted to stay in Jiangcheng for a couple of days. Dad smacked his forehead, “Ah! Almost forgot the main thing!” He rummaged in his small black bag and pulled out a little pouch.
Mom said, “We can look at it after dinner.”
Dad replied, “Today’s a happy occasion—it’s a big deal for our family, the Xiaos. I’m curious, what’s the good news?”
Dad handed me the pouch, saying, “Your mom and I bought this. Many folks in our town did too. Besides visiting you, we also came to check out Yingfei Group’s headquarters in Jiangcheng.”
Hearing “Yingfei Group,” my stomach dropped—Xia Jinrong had been swindled by them.
I took the pouch, and Feng Wushuang leaned in to look.
Inside was a contract from “Yingfei Group,” promoting a financial product. The gist was that Yingfei planned to build 1,000 nursing homes and 100 eco-resorts nationwide, including in famous spots like Bama and Sanya. After investing, you could travel anywhere after ten years. A glossy brochure claimed Yingfei’s CEO had been praised by top national leaders for their “good deeds,” with full policy support.
Yingfei’s operations spanned mining, real estate, and even energy, promising substantial returns—monthly payouts higher than bank interest.
My face darkened. *Damn it, my parents’ life savings have been scammed.* I’d never heard of Yingfei Group in Jiangcheng—were they targeting rural areas first before moving to cities?
Elderly folks often fear becoming burdens to their kids. My parents bought into this scheme hoping to secure their retirement and travel plans while earning extra for me. Yingfei preyed on that fear.
The contract showed an initial investment of 10,000 yuan, then 30,000 more after receiving interest, then another 50,000—90,000 yuan total.
*Goddamn scammers.*
Under the table, Feng Wushuang stepped on my foot and said brightly, “Auntie, this sounds great! Take me tomorrow—I want to invest too.”
Mom sighed in relief, “I was worried we’d been fooled.”
I forced a smile and told Dad to keep the documents safe for now. *Scamming my parents and our town’s hardworking folks? I won’t let this slide.*
After dinner, I walked Feng Wushuang downstairs and thanked her profusely. She said, “I’ll go with your parents tomorrow to check it out—otherwise, they might suspect something.”
I shook my head, “How did I never realize in school how good-hearted you are?”
She joked, “Back then, you were always glued to Ji Qianqian from the literature department. No chance to notice me.”
I grinned, “Is it too late now?”
She rolled her eyes, “Turns out you’re just a shameless flirt. I misjudged you.”
She got into her tiny QQ car and drove off.
I yelled after her, “Wait—let me explain! I’m pure and kind!”
Back upstairs, my parents discussed buying furniture and a TV for my bare apartment. Since it was late, I tidied up Xie Lingyu’s old room and laid out their quilts.
All night, they chattered about future plans—visiting Beijing and West Lake after I got married, to see if the legendary White Snake was truly beautiful.
The next morning, before 7 a.m., Mom was up making congee. She sent Dad out for steamed buns and only woke me when breakfast was ready. By 8, Feng Wushuang arrived in her QQ to pick us up. Dad carefully packed the documents, brimming with hope as we got in.
Yingfei Group’s office was across the Second Bridge. Traffic was slow during rush hour, and it was past 10 when we arrived.
Outside a modest building, a crowd of elderly folks was frantically making calls. Some, white-haired and refined—likely retired professors—looked equally distressed.
Feng Wushuang parked roadside. As I helped my parents out, we learned Yingfei’s staff had fled overnight.
The office had been stripped bare by early arrivals; files littered the floor. Elderly investors wept or shouted curses—some had traveled from nearby towns.
Mom scolded Dad, “I told you not to invest! Ninety thousand—gone!”
Dad insisted, “But they paid 1,500 in interest this month!” A professor nearby added, “Same here. I got 5,000 and was about to invest more. Damn crooks!”
Clearly, Yingfei’s strategy was to string people along until they’d milked enough, then vanish.
As Mom teared up, I reassured her, “The authorities will handle this.” Dad, devastated—90,000 was their nest egg—squatted to chain-smoke his Baisha cigarettes.
The professor joined him, bumming a smoke before cursing, “We were fools. Those bastards deserve to rot in hell.”
Feng Wushuang comforted Mom, “Some money might be recovered.” Mom stayed silent, tears falling.
I seethed, wishing I could string those scammers up on the Yangtze Bridge. Stealing from the elderly was unforgivable—they had no way to earn it back.
Suddenly, shouts erupted. Two elderly men, unable to bear the loss, had jumped into the freezing river. By the time I reached the shore, sand dredgers had pulled them out—but it was too late.
Feng Wushuang, furious, tipped off the police and press.
I urged my parents to go home, promising to handle things. They refused, waiting stubbornly in the cold. Just then, Gao Mo arrived with a few officers in tow.
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