Guyen hummed tuneless lyrics, cheerful, and strode briskly into the old residential compound.

His neighborhood had a vintage feel—elevator-less, aging buildings. The only difference? One entire building belonged to his family. Yep, he was just an ordinary second-gen property kid.

Guyen climbed the stairs quickly, reaching his fourth-floor apartment door in no time.

He slapped the door while shouting, "Open up, Mom! Open up!"

Footsteps sounded inside. A strong female voice called out, "Can't you use the doorbell?"

*Snap.* The door swung open, revealing a woman with chocolate-brown wavy hair.

She had an oval face, faint arched brows over almond eyes, and full lips. She looked like a woman barely thirty, radiating youthful charm.

"Mom, what’re you cooking? I smell it from here," Guyen said, slipping inside and peering toward the kitchen.

"Forgot your keys again? Can’t open it yourself? I’m stewing ribs," Gu Yu’an grumbled, shoving him aside to shut the door.

"Well, you’re home," Guyen grinned cheekily.

"You brought another huge bag of laundry? Can’t wash it in your dorm?" Gu Yu’an shot back, eyebrow raised at his backpack.

"We’ve got a washer at home. Convenient."

"You’re a grown man. How can you be so lazy?"

"Alright, alright—I’m starving. Dinner’s not done yet," Guyen said.

"Missing one meal won’t kill you," Gu Yu’an retorted, but turned back to the kitchen.

Guyen tossed his backpack on the sofa, leaned back, turned on the TV, and scrolled his phone.

"Turn it off if you’re not watching! Wasting electricity!" Gu Yu’an’s voice drifted through the glass door.

"I’m watching, I’m watching," Guyen mumbled without looking up.

Ms. Gu Yu’an—Guyen’s thirty-eight-year-old mother, divorced seventeen years—had a dignified face. She loved fitness, yoga, swimming. Silent, she exuded goddess vibes outdoors.

But twenty years in the south hadn’t cooled her fiery Northeastern heart beneath that beauty. Impatient and blunt, she spoke straight. Guyen inherited that streak.

After scrolling Weibo, Guyen couldn’t sit still. He pushed into the kitchen.

"How many dishes?" he asked, watching his mom stir-fry in a wok, apron tied.

"Enough for you. Why so many questions?" Gu Yu’an snapped.

Guyen shut up. He usually talked like that to others—but this was his mom. He backed down.

He grabbed a sausage slice with his fingers and popped it in. "A bit salty."

"Wash your hands! Dirty!" Gu Yu’an’s voice rose slightly.

Guyen slunk off to the bathroom.

He washed his face, fussed with his hair in the mirror—striking a few "handsome" poses—then dried off and left.

Outside, Gu Yu’an pushed open the glass door, holding a plate with sausage slices and golden-brown braised ribs.

"Eat these to tide you over. Two more dishes aren’t ready," she said, handing him the plate and chopsticks.

Guyen watched her—hair strands stuck to her forehead from the heat—and couldn’t help smiling.

"What’re you grinning at? Take it."