Hearing this, I finally got it—Droma was actually my dad’s fangirl all along.

Back then, I’d often hear Dad boast about being swarmed by adoring girls in his youth. I always assumed he was just like any other guy, exaggerating his romantic past to show off.

But now? Seeing Mom—who defied her own father just to marry him—and Droma, who practically worships Dad like a deity… To them, he instantly became the apple of everyone’s eye. Honestly, it caught me off guard.

In my memory, Dad was just a simple, kind-hearted man: decent-looking, patient, family-oriented. Nothing flashy.

Though I’ve heard many formidable fathers act differently around their daughters. Maybe our unique bond made him hide other sides of himself.

Lost in thought, I glanced outside. Thanks to Droma’s dad, the others had already been ushered into another room to warm up.

Droma grew up in the countryside—her father Han Chinese, her mother Tibetan. With no outside connections, even money couldn’t speed up her search for my dad.

She recalled Dad once mentioning he was from distant SX Province, but never the exact location.

As a person with a disability, with barely literate parents, venturing out of province to hunt for a man who vanished without a trace felt like searching for a needle in a haystack.

With no choice, she gave up.

Later, she tried therapy. To her surprise, the nightmares lessened.

Gradually, Droma transformed from a cursed, disabled girl into a radiant young woman. Her father’s livestock business thrived, bringing the family lasting prosperity.

Yet she couldn’t let go. Guilt over selling the ring. Curiosity about Dad—his sudden appearance, cryptic words, mysterious ring, quiet disappearance. All of it defied explanation.

She’d never forget his kindness to her family… nor shake the wonder he left behind.

Life settled into smooth sailing. Droma stayed in the renovated old house—the very one we’re in now. She practiced standard Mandarin, read classics from East and West to refine herself, traveled to absorb history’s whispers at ancient sites.

Fourteen years flew by—three years ago from today. Never stopping her studies, Droma earned a bachelor’s degree and landed a respectable office job in the city, disability notwithstanding.

Then one day, a phone call shattered her peace.

Her father’s voice trembled: “We have a guest.”

After fourteen years of making friends, she wasn’t fazed—until he spoke the name. She froze. Dropped everything. Rushed home.

There he was: Dad, sitting on the sofa, smoking. Droma’s face lit with uncontrollable joy. His expression remained calm as ever, but rough stubble and deep wrinkles marked his face. No longer the dashing young man from twenty-four years ago.

After awkward pleasantries, her eyes fell on his left hand: the wedding band on his ring finger… and the ring with Arabic numerals on his middle finger—the very one from long ago.

Droma flushed crimson, frozen. Disappointment—*he’s married*—and shock—*the ring she sold is back on his finger*—crashed together.

Sensing her turmoil, Dad gently slipped off the numbered ring. “It’s a replica,” he explained, “identical to the original. I’d like you to keep it safe. Someone will come for it someday.”

As she spoke, Droma pulled the ring from her pocket and handed it to Mom, back turned to me.

“Wait… wait a second! My dad came here three years ago?!” I shot to my feet, heart racing.

Throughout the story, Mom wore a “Wow, so captivating!” smile—but anyone who knew her saw right through it. She was barely containing her impatience.

She forced a smile, took the ring, and tucked it swiftly into her pocket.

Droma turned to me. “He did. Why do you ask?”

Meeting her puzzled gaze, I faltered. After a pause: “Do you… know where he went afterward?”

Droma shook her head with a faint smile.

Truth be told, I hadn’t expected an answer. If anyone knew Dad’s whereabouts, it was Mom. Maybe the sudden thrill of hearing his name pushed me to ask the obvious… Or maybe, deep down, I truly cared.

Listening to Droma’s story, I sensed a quiet envy toward Mom in her words and eyes. In a way, they were rivals in love—except Mom had already won. And I? I was living proof of her victory.

Right then, I silently spared thirty seconds of sympathy for Aunt Droma.

Mom turned immediately toward Second Brother’s room, ring in pocket. I followed.

She knew far more than she let on. I even suspected she and Dad shared some hidden thread. Coming to this village for the ring—and whatever came next—she had a clear plan. But she wasn’t telling me.

Why…?