She was squatting by the sink, unfolding the leaves one by one to wash them.

Her technique was exactly the same as the one Aze had taught her back then.

She looked up, saw me, and smiled.

"Nora, the quality of today’s vegetables is excellent; you should taste them."

She never called me "sister."

Ever since she became my employee, she changed how she addressed me to "Nora."

It wasn't because we had reconciled.

It was because she had learned one thing—respect isn't given because of blood ties; it is earned by oneself.

I heard bits and pieces of Zhao Meifen’s current situation from Lucy occasionally.

She lived alone in a single room in an urban village, went for walks in the nearby park every day, and ate very simply.

She never contacted me again.

The only exception was last Spring Festival.

Lucy handed me a plastic bag.

"My mother asked me to give this to you."

I opened it.

It was a hand-knitted sweater.

Dark red, the stitches were rough, and the cuffs showed two spots where it had been knitted wrong, ripped out, and redone.

On the tag of the sweater, a line was scribbled in ballpoint pen.

"Nora, keep warm."

I folded the sweater neatly and placed it at the very bottom of my cabinet.

I didn't wear it.

But I didn't throw it away.

Some things don't need to be forgiven, nor do they need to be thrown away.

Just leave them there.

Just like my father’s military medal resting against my heart.

Just like the memory of that steamed bun embedded in my bones.

They are all parts of me.

The painful parts, the warm parts—they all are.

On New Year’s Eve this year, I was making dumplings at my home in Beijing.

Cole was next to me rolling out the wrappers, which turned out misshapen—not a single one was round.

Grandma C sat on the recliner in the living room, wrapped in a blanket watching the Spring Festival Gala, shouting from time to time: "Put more salt in the filling!"

I made a steamer full of dumplings, three-fresh filling.

When the lid of the steamer was lifted, the heat hit my face.

I picked up a dumpling and took a bite.

The skin was thin and the filling was plentiful; the freshness was just right.

Over thirty years ago, a seven-year-old girl was beaten for six years because she stole a steamed bun.

Over thirty years later, she stands in her own kitchen, surrounded by people who love her, with dumplings she made herself in front of her.

She can eat as much as she wants.

And no one will ever hit her again.

Chapter 30

That breakfast shop opened next to the military family compound eventually got a name.

It was called "Yuanzheng Breakfast Shop."

It opened at six o'clock every morning, selling soy milk, fried dough sticks, steamed buns, and wontons.

It was free for elderly military family members and veterans.

Others paid the regular price, which was thirty percent cheaper than elsewhere.

It wasn't profitable, but it never lost money.

Because there were always people who quietly paid more.

Some were strangers who had heard my story, some were old comrades introduced by Liu Tiezhu, and some were passersby who said nothing, left their money, and walked away.

Two photos hung on the shop’s wall.

One was that old photo of my father holding me.

The other was a group photo from the day the first Nora’s Kitchen opened.

I was standing in front of the stove, my apron covered in oil stains, but I was smiling very happily.

The same way I smiled when my father held me.

The filling for the steamed buns in the breakfast shop was made by me—fresh meat and diced bamboo shoots—bursting with juice with every bite.

The first customer every morning was the elderly Wang Dehou from next door.

He had moved from Henan to this city and lived in the family compound.

I lent him the vacant apartment next to my father’s old one.

He appeared at the breakfast shop promptly at six every morning, sat at the window seat, and ordered two steamed buns and a bowl of soy milk.

After eating, he would sit for a while, look out the window, and sometimes mutter to himself.

One day, I heard him say to the window: "Yuanzheng, your daughter’s buns are truly delicious. Much better than the ones in the military cafeteria."

I stood behind the counter, hearing those words, and brought out a fresh steamer of buns.

The steam rose from the basket, drifting into the morning sunlight.

A little girl walked past the shop door holding her mother’s hand, tiptoeing to look inside.

"Mommy, it smells so good, I want to eat a steamed bun."

I took a bun from the steamer, put it in a paper bag, walked out, and handed it to her.

"Here you go."

The little girl took the bun and took a big bite; the broth from the filling ran down the corner of her mouth.

She smiled, her eyes squinting.

"Thank you, Auntie!"

I watched her retreating back as I stood at the entrance of the breakfast shop.

Sunlight covered the ground.

Behind me was the white steam of the baskets; in front of me were pedestrians and the morning glow.

I looked down at my hands.

The three-centimeter scar on the inside of my left forearm was still there.

It would never disappear.

But next to it were calluses worn down by years of holding a spatula.

The scar was given to me by others.

The calluses were earned by myself.

I turned and walked back into the shop, tied on my apron, and stood in front of the stove.

The oil in the pot grew hot.

A new day had begun.

[The End]