She’d fallen asleep against the wall, with Biyu at her side that night. Her back made its displeasure with that decision known when the morning sun showed through the tiny window, covered in waxed paper that allowed air in and out of their abode. She’d carefully laid Biyu on the straw mat as she’d begun to move through the motions of her morning. A splash of water to cleanse her face, drying with a cloth. Collecting boiled rainwater from the barrel inside, checking the one outside the window. Finding a clean pot in which to boil the rice, measuring out what they had left, carefully filling her rice scoop to the top, not letting a single grain drop.

She found herself staring at the full scoop, and wondering if it was not alright to fill it again. Her eyes drifted back to the coffer on the table, the glint of silver hidden now. Ling Qingge looked away, and set the half scoop of rice boiling.

She could not afford to be incautious, to be wasteful.

Her daughter was alive.

Thoughts of frugality, pragmatism, and anxiety unraveled around that single point.

She saw Ling Qi smiling up at her, gangly and awkward, a tooth missing holding up to her a very unamused looking frog. She saw her daughter, asleep and drooling on the book of courtly characters that had cost her near a month's normal wages. She saw her, standing in the dim light stiff and terrified outside of the closet door, looking up at the wine drunk man reaching for her.

She saw an empty room, a stolen flute. The foolish girl had not even thought to take the food kept as refreshments for her customers.

Ling Qingge sat down heavily by the rough table in the center of the room. Her elbows hit the surface with a thump, and she rested her head in her hands. Tears formed at the corners of her eyes again. She was so happy, and yet…

Why had she never come back?

That uncharitable thought refused to leave, throbbing like a splinter under her fingernail.

…The only conclusion that returned again and again, was that she was simply that unfit a mother. That the cold and the dust were a better parent than she. That Ling Qi had felt safer out there, than with her. Had been better, without her. Where then this letter now? Pity? Filial duty? Obligation?

She read the words there for the hundredth time, seeking answers beyond the raw text. But her Ling Qi had never been subtle in expressing her feelings, had she? Surely…

Surely she did not know because she had not seen her child in nearly half a decade. A third of her daughter's life lived outside her reach. Where did she find the arrogance to believe she knew anything about the girl who had written this letter?

“Momma…?”

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

“Over at the table Biyu, breakfast will be ready soon,” She said, not raising her head. How slovenly she must look right now, hair askew her clothes rumpled from sleep. There would not be enough water to wash though, not today, not this week, unless it rained. She could draw more from the district well, but did she have time to do that, and still find clients today?

Head in her hands, her eyes drifted to the coffer on her table. Coin, more coin than she could hope to make in a year, like this. That splinter throbbed, it burned like poison in her veins. Her daughter's coin. A girl she had not even raised, not really. A child she had failed completely. She was not in her dotage, she had not provided for her childs youth. She was the one who had broken that sacred compact. What right did she have?

She heard little footsteps and raised her head seeing Biyu looking up at her, the little girl's fist halfway in her own mouth. “Momma hurt?”

“No, I am not hurt,” she said, looking at her other daughter. By the Bountiful Earth, she was so thin. She reached out, pulled her girl into her lap, and smiled a wan smile as the girl giggled and kicked.

“Hugs!”

“Hugs,” Ling Qingge repeated back, wrapping the child in her arms, she rested her chin on the girls head. She looked back at the coffer of coin. Was that splinter shame, or was it pride? Did it even matter? What right did she have to refuse?

“Do you want to go for a walk today Biyu?”

“Outside?”

“Outside. We’ll go to the market today.”

“Okay!”

They would have to be careful. She could not go walking about with so much silver. She could not openly use it. Perhaps Min Hua… Min Hua would understand, silver coins could be traded for copper a few at a time. Her eyes fell on the crumpled silk ribbon lying beside the box. Small, valuable, but not too valuable. Could easily be pawned, explained as one last treasure clung too.

It would do until she could bring a few coins to Min Hua at her next visit. Better food; smoked meat, vegetables, perhaps even some fresh fish hauled down from the mountain streams.

She would haul water today as well, give them enough even without rain. One day. She could spend one day without debasing herself, and she could still take up the trash collectors contract tonight.

If Ling Qi was going to give her so much she would have to make the most of it, put every coin to its best use, and ensure that her fortune was not found. She would not make trouble for her daughter.

…Although, she would need paper, something to write back with. Even if she had no earthly idea what words she might be able to put to the page. What could possibly said, that were not cringing excuses?

“Momma, hot bubbles, hot bubbles!”

Her head jerked up, seeing the lid of the pan with the boiling rice rattling, the water bubbling underneath. She set her daughter aside and swiftly moved to bring it down to add the salt and bring the temperature down to a simmer.

She let out a heavy breath when it was done, running her had through Biyu’s hair as she clung to her side. Yes. She had to make things work as long as possible, to not spit on the generosity she did not deserve.

“Come here Biyu, if we are going out, we will need to comb our hair,” Ling Qingge murmured, guiding Biyu over to the table.

“Nuh uh, no tangles."

Breakfast passed, she ate little as had become her custom, but despite everything, that splinter of doubt and rightful self condemnation. She felt lighter than she had in many years. Hope was a heady feeling. The feeling that each tomorrow might not grow worse still.

She did not trust it yet, could not trust it yet, but… it seemed possible now. That she might be able to raise at least one daughter well.