Reborn Little Wife

"Ms. Zhong, do you realize what you're doing?" The fashionable woman's voice dripped with sarcasm. "Ningning is my son. You cling to him every day until he barely recognizes his own mother now. Surely this isn't... intentional?" Though nearly fifty, being chastised by someone young enough to be her daughter filled Zhong Ling with quiet despair. Yet this humiliation had become routine. "Xiaohui, I... I only wanted to help with your responsibilities." Zhong Ling's calloused hands twisted her apron. Xiaohui's crimson lips curled. "If not for your cooking skills and work ethic, I'd have dismissed you years ago. Four years tending my postpartum recovery, raising my child, nursing my paralyzed mother-in-law - you've certainly earned your keep." "Merely doing my job," Zhong Ling replied evenly, two decades of service teaching her the art of diplomatic responses. "Enough!" The patriarch Yu Hao's voice rumbled like distant thunder. "You neglect your son, then blame others for loving him too well." His rheumy eyes softened when glancing at Zhong Ling. At sixty-five, the Manchurian native still carried himself like the lumberjack of his youth, though these days his greatest battles were fought over steamed buns and braised pork belly. As Xiaohui's venomous gaze darted between them, Zhong Ling felt the fragile equilibrium shatter. The unspoken truth hung heavier than the northeastern winter fog - Yu Hao's growing attachment threatened to elevate this servant to stepmother, jeopardizing inheritance plans. When the damning revelations came, they flowed with practiced cruelty. "Did you know Ms. Zhong abandoned her military husband? Ran off with some accountant? A regular merry-go-round of men before her looks faded and debts mounted." Xiaohui's smile could frost vodka. "Bankruptcy drove her to housekeeping. Quite the redemption arc, isn't it?" The suitcase handle bit into Zhong Ling's palm as she trudged through the snowstorm. Ningning's tear-streaked face haunted her - that precious boy she'd nurtured like her own. If only she'd kept the child from her first marriage... If only she hadn't been so blind to Zhu Baogang's quiet devotion... The screeching tires came as almost a relief. When consciousness returned, the world smelled of coal smoke and bridal rouge. Zhong Ling stared at the garish pink canopy above the heated brick bed, embroidered mandarin ducks mocking her second chance. The calendar confirmed it - December 13, 1983. Her wedding night to Zhu Baogang, the stoic army officer whose heart she'd shattered. This time, she wouldn't repeat her mistakes. "Up already, child?" Mother-in-law Feng Zhen gaped as Zhong Ling knelt scrubbing banquet dishes, her sleeves rolled past jade bracelets. "Let me help!" The older woman moved to intervene, but Zhong Ling's efficient motions stayed her hand. By dusk, the farmhouse brimmed with reinvented leftovers - braised pork glazed in hawthorn syrup, pickled cabbage revitalized with chili oil. Father-in-law Zhu Chunlai's eyebrows climbed his forehead with each bite. "Old Chen outdid himself this time!" "Credit your new daughter," sister-in-law Zhu Baoqin chuckled, chopsticks conducting her praise. "Transformed yesterday's scraps into a feast!" That night, Zhong Ling traced the wedding photo on the whitewashed wall. Her eighteen-year-old self glared at the camera, while twenty-eight-year-old Baogang's stern features betrayed tentative hope. She'd make him smile in their next portrait, she vowed. When they legalized the marriage in two years, they'd take proper photos - ones radiating the love she'd been too foolish to recognize. Curled beneath the quilted marriage blanket, Zhong Ling pinched her thigh. The pain made her grin. She'd rebuild everything - the family she'd spurned, the man she'd underestimated, the life she'd squandered. This time, she'd cherish each sunrise in Baogang's arms, each wrinkle earned through shared laughter. For the first time in decades, hope warmed her better than any hearth. The bitter cold gripped the countryside long before the traditional "Three-Nine" freezing period arrived. At five in the morning, when darkness still clung stubbornly to the frozen earth, Zhong Ling rose silently from her kang bed. She knew her elderly in-laws would stir soon - country folk maintained their dawn routines even in winter's depths. While part of her motivation was maintaining harmony with the Zhu family, more importantly, this nineteen-year-old bride clung to discipline like armor against life's uncertainties. The Zhu compound stood as a testament to rural pragmatism - three connected rooms with partial brick construction. The elderly couple occupied the east wing where the main cooking stove resided, while Zhong Ling's west chamber doubled as a makeshift pig kitchen. Two hogs snorted contentedly in the adjacent pen, their winter breath fogging the air. Methodically, Zhong Ling fed the swine their breakfast of kitchen slops mixed with bran. The familiar rhythm calmed her - boiling water, preparing feed, wiping condensation from frost-etched windows. When Mother Feng emerged squinting into the icy dawn, Zhong Ling already had washbasins steaming. "Child, why sacrifice sleep?" Feng Zhen's voice carried genuine warmth. This unexpected daughter-in-law had proven surprisingly capable since the arranged marriage three days prior. Zhong Ling smiled, cheeks flushing like the pink cotton jacket she reserved for special occasions. "Good morning, Mother. The water's ready." She noted Feng's momentary hesitation - the older woman still adjusting to having household authority gently usurped by youthful efficiency. By sunrise, breakfast steamed on the kang table: millet congee, coarse grain buns, and pickled vegetables sautéed in precious lard. Zhong Ling arranged each dish with care, understanding country elders valued proper meals as life's anchor. "Today's your homecoming visit," Father Zhu broke the silence, tobacco smoke curling around his weathered face. The unspoken truth hung heavy - their soldier son wouldn't accompany his bride. Zhu Baogang's military obligations had already swallowed their wedding night. Zhong Ling's chopsticks stilled. "Of course. My parents understand service comes first." She met her father-in-law's gaze steadily, ignoring the hollow ache beneath her ribs. Three days married, yet her husband remained a stranger in uniform. The journey to Zhong village unfolded through frosted birch forests, old Qian's horse-drawn cart creaking under gifts. At the supply cooperative, Zhong Ling bypassed customary liquor and pastries. Instead, she selected practical warmth - bolts of woolen cloth for patching winter coats, cotton batting to replenish threadbare quilts. Let neighbors whisper about unorthodox bride gifts; her family's comfort mattered more than appearances. Her childhood home erupted in chaos upon arrival. "Xiao Ling's back!" Brother Zhong Jing's shout brought relatives pouring from every corner. Amidst the clamor, Zhong Ling catalogued changes - Father's stooped shoulders, Mother's silver-streaked braid. Guilt prickled. In her previous defiance, she'd denied them this ritual. Kitchen whispers swirled as women prepared the feast. "Does the Zhu family treat you well?" Auntie prodded while kneading dough. "Very." Zhong Ling focused on slicing pork belly, blade flashing. She'd learned young that rural matriarchs measured happiness in chilblained hands and empty cradles. The interrogation escalated. "Has he... you know..." Cousin Mei waggled eyebrows suggestively. Heat flooded Zhong Ling's cheeks. "Auntie!" The women cackled, their laughter tinged with anxiety. A childless bride was rootless in their world. Later, Mother Zhang pressed a cloth-wrapped bundle into her hands - the returned bride price. "Your brother refused blood money," she murmured. Zhong Ling's throat tightened. This unexpected redemption lifted a shadow she hadn't acknowledged. Dusk found Zhong Ling hastening back, a squawking chicken lashed to her satchel. She'd gambled on remembering the sow's farrowing date from that other life. Past failures haunted her - the stench of piglets born in kitchens, Mother Feng's pneumonia caught midwifing livestock. The Zhu compound glowed welcomingly through gathering snow. "Back so soon?" Mother Feng bustled out, eyeing the flustered hen. "The sow..." Zhong Ling panted, breath crystallizing. "I thought you might need help." Feng Zhen's face softened. As they hurried to prepare birthing straw, Zhong Ling's chest warmed. This time, she'd get it right. In the east wing, Father Zhu grunted around his pipe. "Early days yet. Don't count chicks before they hatch." His wife snorted. "That girl's solid as winter wheat. Our Baogang doesn't know his luck." Outside, the first porcine squeal pierced the night. Zhong Ling knelt in the barn, bloodied hands cradling new life. Somewhere beyond the frozen horizon, a soldier stared at her photo, unaware of the woman quietly rewriting