Two weeks after receiving my Senior Clinical Nutritionist certification, I made a decision.

I was going to start my own business.

In the field of prenatal and postpartum nutritional management, there were almost no high-quality services on the market. Having worked in the Nutrition Department at St. Yanhe for three years, I had seen too many pregnant women who didn't know what to eat or how to supplement correctly, often spending exorbitant amounts of money on useless health products.

From the sixty million dollars, I allocated one hundred and fifty thousand to rent a street-front shop on the commercial street opposite Riverside Manor. It wasn’t large—about eighty square meters. The renovation was simple: clean, bright, and centered around my nutritionist license hanging prominently on the wall near the entrance.

I spent a long time thinking about a name for the studio before finally settling on two words.

"Three Meals."

On opening day, my mother insisted on setting off two strings of firecrackers at the entrance.

"Mom, people don't really do that anymore," I protested.

"I don't care if it's trendy or not. It's for good luck!"

My father stood by the door, staring at the sign for a long time without saying a word.

"Not bad," he finally remarked.

The first two months after opening were very quiet.

There weren't many clients; most were pregnant women from the surrounding neighborhoods who wandered in out of curiosity after seeing the sign. I did everything myself: designing plans, conducting consultations, following up with patients, and creating educational content.

During the day, I was at the studio. At night, I went home to read and research literature. My belly was getting bigger, and my feet were becoming increasingly swollen. My mother, heartbroken to see me working so hard, scolded me every day for being reckless.

"You're carrying three babies and you still won't rest! Do you think you're made of iron?"

"Mom, I'm fine."

"Your father is right—you’re just stubborn."

I was stubborn.

But I wanted to stand on my own two feet. Sixty million is a lot, but it disappears once it's spent. A certificate is just a piece of paper. Only by building something real could it truly be mine.

The turning point came sooner than I expected.

One afternoon, a sophisticated-looking woman pushed open the door. She was a Chief Physician from the OB-GYN department at St. Yanhe Hospital, a Dr. Fang.

"Are you Vivian Su?"

"Yes, that's me."

"I’ve heard of you," Dr. Fang said, looking me up and down. "People at St. Yanhe said your nutritional plans were excellent when you were in the department. I have a few high-risk patients whose nutritional management hasn't been ideal. Are you willing to take them on?"

I accepted them that very day.

Three high-risk cases: one with gestational diabetes, one with twins and hypothyroidism, and one who was pregnant again after recurrent miscarriages. I created comprehensive nutritional intervention plans for each of them, conducting weekly follow-ups and adjusting their regimens every two weeks.

Two months later, the health indicators for all three patients had improved significantly.

Dr. Fang posted a message on her social feed: [Highly recommending a prenatal nutrition studio—professional, patient, and with solid plans. The feedback from the patients I referred has been excellent.]

Beneath the post, she included the address for "Three Meals" and my contact QR code.

That post was shared over sixty times.

By the following week, the line of people seeking consultations stretched out the door.

I started hiring. First, two recent graduates majoring in nutrition, then an operations manager. The studio slowly got onto the right track. Three months later, our reputation had climbed to the number one spot in the city for prenatal and postpartum nutritional management. Three top-tier hospitals proactively reached out to discuss referral partnerships.

Watching people stream in and out of the studio, my mother didn't say much, but she smiled so widely her eyes nearly disappeared.

"Look at that—my daughter started a company," she said to Ms. Li, her voice loud enough for the next building to hear.

"Mom, it’s just a small studio, not a corporation."

"Small? Look at the line outside that door!"

Adrian Lu found out, too.

He didn't say anything directly to me. However, during his community consultations, he started asking pregnant patients: "Are you managing your nutrition? There’s a professional place right across from Riverside Manor."

I learned this from the nurse who took blood pressure.

"Vivian, Dr. Lu is practically a brand ambassador for you every day."

I didn't respond, but as I looked down, a small smile tugged at the corners of my mouth.

Adrian’s pursuit had entered a much quieter phase.

He stopped sending thermal containers and stopped blocking my door. He was just... there.

His community service continued as usual, every Tuesday and Thursday. Occasionally, when I passed the health center, I would see him inside treating elderly patients.

He didn't update his social feed often—maybe a photo of the operating room or a shared medical paper once in a while. But he "liked" every single post I made.

He never commented. He just liked them.

Once, I posted a photo of some new greenery that had arrived at the studio with the caption: [New colleague reporting for duty.]

He liked it. Ten minutes later, a single comment appeared in the section below:

[Do you need someone to water the plants?]

Just seven words.

Ms. Li was the first to reply: [The young man has a sense of humor!]

My mother was the second: [Stop messing around.]

I didn't reply.

But I didn't delete it, either.

Life hadn't been easy for Selina Shen lately.

The hospital’s ethics committee had reached its conclusion: serious misconduct involving the unauthorized use of another person’s office equipment and the forgery of official communications. Her punishment was a six-month suspension, disqualification from all year-end awards, and the removal of her name from the joint research project.