Ten Houses Cannot Warm a Cold Heart

My name is Zhou Xiuying, and I’m fifty-eight years old. I’m not afraid of people laughing when I say this, but I haven't accomplished much in my life—I just raised this one son, a whole human being.

My husband, Zhang Jianguo, is three years older than me, sixty-one this year. We’ve both been honest, hardworking laborers our entire lives. He spent his career at a machinery plant, and I spent thirty years as a loom operator at a textile factory. Now that we’re retired, our combined monthly pension is about 7,000 yuan. It’s not a fortune, but it’s enough for a quiet life. If we live frugally, we can even save a little "melon seed and date" money for a rainy day.

The biggest asset we’ve accumulated in our lives is our old house in the historic district. It wasn’t actually that old—allocated by the work unit back in the nineties, a two-bedroom apartment of about seventy square meters. Later, when the area was slated for urban redevelopment, we traded it for a large three-bedroom unit of 120 square meters. Then, thanks to favorable government policies, we were compensated with two additional small apartments. So, on paper, we are holding three properties—one to live in and two to rent out. In the eyes of our relatives and friends, we are considered a family with "solid foundations."

But I knew in my heart that these three houses would eventually belong to our son. Jianguo and I have only this one child; if we don’t give them to him, who else? We just never expected that before we even handed them over, he would already treat them as his own, coming to claim them with such a sense of entitlement.

It all started earlier this year.

Back in early spring, Jianguo kept saying his stomach felt off. We didn't take it seriously at first, thinking he’d just eaten something bad, so he bought some over-the-counter medicine. After half a month, he wasn't getting better; in fact, it got worse. It hurt every time he ate, and he lost a noticeable amount of weight. I urged him to go to the hospital, but he was stubborn, muttering about "wasting hard-earned money." I finally lost my temper and dragged him to the city hospital.

The diagnosis: a severe gastric ulcer. The doctor said he had to be hospitalized immediately for treatment, or there was a risk of perforation. I panicked and rushed through the admission paperwork.

The day he was admitted was March 12th—I remember it clearly because it was Arbor Day. I even joked with Jianguo, "It's time for this old tree of yours to get its branches pruned." Jianguo lay on the bed, his face sallow, but he managed to squeeze out a smile.

Once he was settled, I pulled out my phone to call our son.

My son’s name is Zhang Lei. He’s thirty-two. After graduating from university, he stayed in the provincial capital to work in something related to the internet—I can’t explain exactly what he does. He’s married; his wife is a local from the capital, and her family is well-off. The young couple lives a good life; they have a car and their own apartment. Of course, when they bought that place, we contributed 200,000 yuan—the savings of more than half our lives.

The phone rang for a long time before he picked up. It was noisy on his end, like he was out eating.

"Lei-lei, your dad is in the hospital. A gastric ulcer. He’ll be in for a while."

"Hospitalized? Is it serious?"

"The doctor said it's quite bad. He needs proper treatment."

"Alright then, let the doctors handle it for now. I’m incredibly busy lately with work. Once I’m done, I’ll come back and visit."

"When will you be done?"

"Mom, I can’t say for sure. The company has a huge project right now and I’m the lead. I can’t just walk away. You take care of him first, and call me if anything happens."

After hanging up, I stood in the hospital corridor, dazed for a long time. People were rushing past; a nurse pushing a cart had to shout "Make way!" several times before I snapped out of it.

I went back to the ward. Jianguo asked, "What did Lei-lei say? When is he coming?"

I tucked his blanket in and said, "He said he’s busy. He’ll come as soon as he finishes his work."

Jianguo didn't say a word. He just turned his head to look out the window. Outside was the hospital courtyard, where a few old locust trees stood bare, having not yet sprouted their spring buds.

Hospital days are grueling.

With Jianguo’s condition, the doctor said his diet had to be strictly controlled—only liquids or semi-liquids, small meals throughout the day. He couldn't stomach the canteen food, so I would wake up at 5:00 AM every morning to brew congee at home, cook soft noodles, or steam egg custard. I’d pack it in a thermal flask and take a forty-minute bus ride to the hospital.

During the day, I’d stay by his bed, pouring water, giving him medicine, and watching the IV drip. When the pain was bad, I’d rub his stomach for him, over and over, until he fell asleep. At night, I’d take the bus back; sometimes I was so exhausted I’d fall asleep on the bus and miss my stop.

There were two other patients in the ward—an old man named Liu and a younger man named Li. Old Liu’s wife stayed with him every day, and the two of them were always chatting and laughing. Mr. Li’s son came every single day after work, sometimes bringing his wife and kids. The ward was always lively when they were around.

Every time I saw other people’s children visiting, I felt a pang in my heart. It wasn't exactly jealousy... just a hollow, empty feeling.

Old Liu’s wife once asked me, "Sister, where’s your son? We haven't seen him."

I forced a smile. "He works in the provincial capital. He's busy, can't get away."

"No matter how busy you are, you should come see your own father in the hospital."

"Young people... their careers are important."

I said this with a smile on my face, but my heart felt like it was being pricked by needles.

Jianguo was hospitalized for twenty-three days. During that entire time, our son didn't call once on his own initiative. Every time, I was the one who called. He’d pick up quickly, but he’d hang up after a few sentences. "Mom, I’m in a meeting." "Mom, I’ve got things to do, let’s talk later." "Later" always meant never.

Once, I couldn't hold it in anymore. I said over the phone, "Lei-lei, your dad misses you. Can't you find some time to come back just once?"

There was a two-second silence on the other end. Then he said, "Mom, I really can’t leave. How about this? I’ll transfer some money to you, and you can hire a professional caregiver?"

I said, "I don’t want your money, and your father doesn't want a caregiver. He just wants to see you."

"Mom, can you not be like this? It's not like I'm abandoning you. I truly cannot get away."

I didn't say anything else and hung up. I sat on the bench outside the ward, tears splashing down.

I didn't know when Jianguo had come out. He sat beside me, patted my hand, and said, "Don't cry. The boy is grown; he has his own life to lead. As long as the two of us are okay, that's enough."

I looked up at him. He had withered away; the wrinkles on his face were deeper, and his hair had turned much whiter. My heart ached, and I cried even harder.

"Don't cry, what's there to cry about?" Jianguo clumsily wiped my tears. "Aren't I doing just fine?"

The more he spoke like that, the worse I felt. It wasn't just because our son wouldn't come back, but because Jianguo was always like this—always thinking of others, never uttering a word of complaint. He hadn't made a sound when he was sweating from pain; he hadn't said a word about missing his son; and when he watched me running back and forth alone, his eyes were full of heartache for me. Yet, he didn't even dare ask if I was tired, because he was afraid that if he asked, I would finally realize just how exhausted I was.

Twenty-three days—neither long nor short. On April 4th, Jianguo was discharged. The doctor gave us a long list of instructions: take medicine on time, regular check-ups, a light diet, no overexertion. I wrote every single thing down in a small notebook, more focused than I ever was during a school exam.

On the day of discharge, I was the one running up and down for the paperwork, settling the bill, picking up the meds, and hailing a taxi. As I helped Jianguo into the car, the driver came out to help. He glanced at me and asked, "Ma'am, just you? Where’s the rest of the family?"

I said, "It’s just us two old folks."

The driver sighed and said no more.

Back home, I settled Jianguo on the sofa, covered him with a blanket, and poured him a glass of warm water. He leaned back, looked around the apartment, and whispered, "There’s no place like home."

My nose stung. I turned into the kitchen and started brewing congee.

Days passed. Jianguo recovered well; he could slowly eat soft rice, and his spirits improved. I changed the menu every day to keep his appetite up and accompanied him downstairs for walks. Life was plain, but it felt solid.

As for our son, I hadn't called him in a while. To be honest, I was holding a grudge. I’m not an unreasonable old woman; I know young people are busy and under pressure. But no matter how busy you are, your own father is in the hospital for twenty-odd days—how hard could it be to come back once? From the provincial capital to our city, it’s an hour and a half by high-speed rail, or two hours by car. I refuse to believe that in twenty-three days, he couldn't squeeze out half a day.

I didn't call, and he didn't either. Mother and son were locked in a silent standoff.

Finally, on April 27th—twenty-three days after Jianguo was discharged—my son called.

That afternoon, I was hanging laundry on the balcony when the phone rang. Seeing it was him, a surge of joy hit me. I quickly wiped my hands and answered.

"Mom, how’s Dad doing lately?"

"Much better. He’s recovering well."

"That’s good. Mom, I have something to tell you."

"What is it?"

"I heard that the old district where we live is going to be redeveloped again. Those three houses you have—are they all within the demolition zone this time?"

I froze. There had been rumors about the old district's redevelopment for a while, but no official document had been released yet. I didn't know where he’d heard it.

"I think so, but nothing is settled yet."

"Mom, let me tell you, if this redevelopment is real, when the compensation comes through, give me four units."

I thought I had misheard. "What did you say?"

"I said, when the compensation is handed out, give me four of the units. I’m under a lot of pressure here—mortgage, car loans, and the kids' school fees are expensive. You guys don’t need that many houses anyway."

My hand gripped the phone until my knuckles turned white. A shirt on the drying rack was blown off by the wind, falling to the ground, but I didn't reach for it.

"Lei-lei, what are you saying? Your father was in the hospital for twenty-three days and you didn't even show your face. Now you hear about redevelopment, and you call just to ask for houses?"

"Mom, don’t talk like that. It’s not that I didn't want to come back; I was truly busy. Besides, I’m your only son. Who else are you going to give the houses to?"

"Give them to you? Based on what?"

"Mom, what kind of talk is that? I’m your son!"

"You still remember you’re my son? Where were you when your father was lying in that hospital bed, sweating from the pain? Where were you when I was taking a forty-minute bus every day, standing guard at the hospital all day long? Where were you when your father couldn't sleep from missing you, tossing and turning and calling your name?"

My voice grew louder, and tears flowed freely. Jianguo walked over from the living room, saw me crying, and asked, "What’s wrong? Who’s on the phone?"

I ignored him and continued into the phone, "Zhang Lei, let me make this clear today. Don't even think about the houses. Your father and I are still alive. Our things are for us to decide."

There was a long silence on the other end. Then my son said something that turned my heart completely cold.

He said, "Mom, can you stop making a scene? When you get old, aren't you going to have to rely on me to care for you in your old age? Give me the houses, and do you think I’d ever stop taking care of you?"

I laughed—a bitter, astringent laugh.

"Care for us in our old age? You wouldn't even show up when your father was hospitalized, and I’m supposed to count on you for my twilight years? Zhang Lei, look into your conscience and tell me: in those twenty-three days, did you once call on your own to ask if your father was better? Did you once ask if your mother was tired? No. Not once. Your father is out of the hospital, and you don't even ask a single question about his health—you just open your mouth and ask for four houses. You aren't asking for property; you are gouging out our hearts."

"Mom..."

"Don't call me. I’m hanging up."

I threw the phone on the sofa and crouched on the floor, burying my face in my hands and sobbing. Jianguo stood there, unable to say a word. He just placed his hand on my shoulder, patting me gently.

I didn't sleep at all that night.

Lying in bed, I replayed the last thirty years in my mind.

When I was pregnant with Zhang Lei, I had severe morning sickness. I threw up everything I ate and lost over ten pounds. Giving birth was a difficult labor—I was in pain for over ten hours before finally having a C-section, leaving a long scar on my belly. He was a sickly child, always in and out of the hospital. Jianguo and I would hold him, queuing up for registration in the middle of the night, never uttering a single word of complaint.

In elementary school, we scrimped and saved to pay for his tutoring. In middle school, we gritted our teeth and bought a home in a prime school district. When he went to university and his grades weren't quite enough, we paid extra to get him into a good school. When he graduated, we used every connection and favor we had to help him find a job. When he got married, we gave him our entire life savings of 200,000 yuan. When his wife had a baby, I went there to do the "confinement care," working until my back couldn't even straighten up.

All our lives, we were ready to pull out our very hearts for him. But what about him?

Does he remember our kindness? Does he even remember us?

I didn't expect him to be wealthy or to give us money. I just wanted to know he cared. A phone call during the holidays, a visit when he was free—even if he brought nothing, just to come back for a meal, to have a few drinks with his dad—I would have been satisfied.

But he didn't. He couldn't even spare a phone call.

And now, he hears about redevelopment, and he calls. He opens his mouth and asks for four houses. We only have three, and he asks for four—he wants to squeeze us dry.

The next morning, Jianguo saw my red eyes and said, "Don't think about it anymore. The boy is immature; we can't lower ourselves to his level."

I said, "Jianguo, tell me the truth. Does your heart ache?"

He was silent for a while, then said, "It aches."

Just two words, but they weighed more than anything else. Jianguo is a man who never learned to speak pretty words; no matter how bitter his heart is, he doesn't pour it out. For him to say "it aches" meant he was hurting to the very bone.

I said, "Jianguo, I’ve decided something. About those three houses. One for us to live in. One to sell—we’ll keep the money for medical bills and our old age. And the last one... I want to donate it."

Jianguo looked up at me. There was a flicker of surprise in his eyes, which then slowly turned into a nod.

"Fine. You decide."

I thought he might hesitate, or feel it was a waste, or say "let's leave one for our son." But he didn't. He was truly disheartened.

What happened next was simple. The redevelopment was finalized, and all three houses were included. We did exactly as I said—kept one for ourselves, sold one and put the money into a fixed-term deposit. As for the last one, I contacted the community office and donated it to the neighborhood to be used as a community center for the elderly.

The community director held my hand and said, "Sister Zhou, this is a great act of charity."

I said, "It’s not about charity. I just feel that giving a house to those who need it is better than giving it to someone who doesn't."

I knew exactly who I was saying that for.

My son called a few more times later, but I didn't pick up. He called his father; Jianguo answered, spoke a few words, and hung up. I asked what the boy said. He replied, "Nothing much, just asking about the houses."

Later, my son came back from the provincial capital with his wife. They stood at the door carrying two cartons of milk and a box of tea. I was stunned to see them, then stepped aside to let them in.

He walked in, saw his father sitting on the sofa, and called out, "Dad." Jianguo gave a short grunt of acknowledgment but said nothing else.

After sitting down, my son hesitated for a long time before saying, "Mom... about last time... I was wrong. I shouldn't have had that attitude."

I didn't speak.

His wife added from the side, "Mom, Lei-lei knows he was wrong. Please don't be angry anymore."

I looked at them, then at Jianguo. Jianguo kept his head down, hands on his knees, silent.

I said, "Lei-lei, do you know how I got through those twenty-three days your father was in the hospital?"

He lowered his head. "Mom, I’m sorry."

"Saying sorry to me is useless. Say it to your father."

He turned to Jianguo, his lips trembling, and said, "Dad, I’m sorry."

Jianguo looked up at him for a long time, then finally said, "It’s okay. It’s in the past."

I know Jianguo still loves his son; after all, he is his own flesh and blood. But I also know that some things, once broken, stay broken. They can't be glued back together.

I made four dishes for that meal: braised pork ribs, steamed sea bass, garlic broccoli, and seaweed egg drop soup. All of them were my son’s favorites. He ate a lot, but he barely looked up the whole time.

When they left, he stood at the door for a while, looking like he wanted to say something. I knew he wanted to ask about the houses, but in the end, he didn't open his mouth.

After he left, I was clearing the dishes when Jianguo suddenly said, "He still has us in his heart."

I didn't respond.

Whether he does or not, I don't know. All I know is that some things cannot be made whole by a single "I’m sorry." The twenty-three days and nights of waiting, the countless disappointments, the tears shed on the pillow, the heartaches that couldn't be voiced—none of that can be smoothed over by one meal or one apology.

It's not that I won't forgive him. It's that I can't pretend nothing ever happened.

He didn't mention the houses again. He probably heard that I had donated one and realized there was no point in asking.

Sometimes I wonder if I was too cold-hearted. After all, he is my son, the boy I carried for ten months and raised with every bit of my strength. But then I think: Me, cold-hearted? Who was cold-hearted first?

A parent’s love for a child is never supposed to ask for a return. But that doesn't mean a parent’s heart can't break.

We don't expect our children to support us or give us money. We just hope that when we need them most, they will stand by our side. Even if they can't do anything, just to stand there for a moment and say, "Dad, Mom, I’m here"—that’s enough.

But he couldn't even give me that shred of hope.

Anyway, enough. Too much talk only brings more tears.

Life goes on. Jianguo and I are doing well now. Every morning we go to the park for a walk; at noon I cook for him; in the afternoon he watches his chess matches and I knit my sweaters. It’s plain, but it’s steady.

As for my son, he still comes back for the holidays, and I still cook for him. He is my son; that’s a fact that can't be changed. But some things are different now.

You only realize when you're old: the most reliable thing in this world isn't a son, and it isn't a house. It’s the partner by your side who has walked through half a lifetime with you. He says nothing, but he understands everything. He doesn't fight for anything, but he holds it all in his heart.

That is enough.

Houses can be earned again, and money can be saved again, but if a person's heart turns cold, ten houses won't be enough to warm it back up.

I’ll leave those words right here. Whether anyone listens is up to them.