Chapter 9: He Is a Thief
He quickly went home and carried his sister to the hearth, wrapped her up tightly in blankets, and held her small hand, rubbing it until some color returned to her face, which relaxed him.
Soup, hot soup, yes hot soup.
He dashed into the kitchen, lifted the pot lid; there was still some meat soup left. The scent made his mouth water. Gnashing his teeth, he took a bowl from the side, scooped some soup, and covered the bowl with his clothes. Just as he was running out of the kitchen, having barely taken a few steps, he encountered a quiet five or six-year-old little girl, plump and cute. The girl lifted her face and pointed at him accusingly with her small fingers.
"You’re a thief, stealing our family’s meat soup; I’m going to tell my mom."
Qin Xiangyang bit his dry, cracked lips, his frail body shivering in the wind as if it was about to disperse. He turned away facing constant verbal assaults from the little girl behind, the insistent calls of "shameless." He knew what that meant, and although he had heard it enough over the years and had been through a lot, it still unavoidably pained his heart.
This was his home, his home. When their mom was alive, he could enjoy meat soup, as she saved all the good food for him and his sister, even if it meant going hungry herself, allowing them to fill their stomachs. But after she passed away, and their dad remarried, he could no longer fill his stomach or stay warm.
He had promised his mother to take good care of his sister, to raise her well, and to not let anyone bully her. But he was failing; he was useless. His sister had started washing clothes, cooking, raising chickens, and feeding pigs the moment she could understand chores, while he did adult tasks in the fields. The stepmother’s two children, however, could go to school and eat meat. Now with his sister sick, the stepmother even wanted to abandon her, but he had promised his mom, he would protect his sister, and he would.
He brought the bowl into his own room—though it was more of a shelter pieced together with broken planks, barely enough to shield from wind and rain. The only useful thing was the hearth, left behind from when their mom was alive. The stepmother, disdainful of such a place, took everything she could and begrudgingly left the hearth to him and his sister.
"Here, Nuannuan, have some soup; you’ll feel better after some soup," he carefully brought the bowl to his sister’s lips.