Chapter 7: Terms and Conditions
"You tell me, what’s going on?" Qin Xiangnuan now somewhat wanted to rush people out; she was thinking about the noodles in her pot, they seemed to be ready, edible, and she was also a bit hungry.
"Since that’s the case, I’ll just get straight to the point," Qin Xiangmei placed her hands on the table, her delicate fingertips turning somewhat pale with the force she exerted.
"Qin Xiangnuan, Mingming is sick, he needs a bone marrow transplant."
"Oh, leukemia?" Qin Xiangnuan asked indifferently. She wasn’t a bad person herself; from childhood to now, except for a nearly fatal illness when she was young, she hardly ever caught a cold. That must be the scoundrel’s luck. As for Song Mingli, she still felt it was a pity. Born into a third-generation official family, a third-generation wealthy family, with more money than one could spend, more blessings than one could enjoy, what now, getting seriously ill, and with this kind of illness at that.
"You want me to donate bone marrow to him?" She wasn’t foolish. Qin Xiangmei’s personal visit was precisely for this matter, wasn’t it?
"Yes," Qin Xiangmei’s expression became frenzied, the veins on her arm throbbing. Qin Xiangnuan understood a mother’s anxiety and helplessness, but sorry, she couldn’t empathize.
"Qin Xiangnuan!" Qin Xiangmei’s voice suddenly rose several octaves, sounding somewhat piercing to the ear.
"You are Mingming’s aunt, and you share a blood relation with him. We’ve all been checked and aren’t suitable, so now, you’re the only one left. You should know, Mingming is father’s only grandson. If you can save Mingming, I can give you a house."
"A house, huh, Qin Xiangnuan," Qin Xiangmei’s voice was filled with temptation, and Qin Xiangnuan was indeed lured by it. Yes, a house, a house! The house she had thought of her entire life, if she had a house, she would have her own home, her own nest, where she wouldn’t have to fight with others over the bathroom, couldn’t place any valuable items around, and would be cautious of other renters. If she had her own house, she would clean it every day; she would use discarded old cloths from the factory to make table covers, and then make a fabric carpet to lie on when tired. When using the bathroom, she wouldn’t need to shut the door, and when it rains, she wouldn’t have to worry about leaks. She would make several different kinds of fabric flowers to decorate her little home. Although she was already forty years old, she could still harbor girlish sentiments. Those things she once didn’t do, couldn’t do, and felt regretful about, perhaps she could now experience them.