It was only when Yang Zhi had managed to pull her daughter’s hand off the man that Cheng Ying came back to her senses.

What was I doing? How could I be so utterly out of sync, mistaking this stepfather for Chen Shimei?

She was, after all, still essentially an outsider in this body. Why get so agitated?

Besides, with her small frame and slender limbs, how could she possibly gain an advantage? She’d completely forgotten how to read the situation.

Cheng Ying absolutely refused to admit she was provoked by the sight of an ungrateful man.

Looking at it another way, perhaps this man meant well.

After all, in Cheng Ying's estimation, the sheep shed was truly no place for a young woman.

She actually felt a twinge of guilt; the man hadn't even touched her prospective mother yet. Why the fuss?

She surveyed the scene: her stepfather stood before her, his expression unreadable. Her own mother was in the middle, her face contorted in what looked like agony. She had made this whole situation terribly awkward. How to salvage this?

A hint of apology flickered in Cheng Ying's eyes.

To Chi Yong, this was the first time the girl had looked at him squarely.

And this stepfather was truly no ordinary person; he could see the guilt reflected in the child’s eyes. This felt like a sign of improving relations.

Hoping to ease the tension, he spoke, “Yingzi, from now on, we’re family. It’s alright.”

Cheng Ying thought, As expected of an educated man, skilled at winning hearts.

She couldn't appear too coarse. He was right; they were family now. She couldn't openly express reluctance.

Drooping her head in feigned shyness emphasized the delicate modesty of a young girl.

In Cheng Ying's mind, this was the safest approach: I haven’t agreed to anything.

Cheng Ying was never one to be overly scrupulous; could someone who was truly kind ever claw her way up from the bottom layers of society?

To the rest of the family, Cheng Ying’s actions were not embarrassment; this child always hid her thoughts. She was bottling something up again.

Her paternal aunt let out a long sigh, imbued with so much meaning it resonated deeply.

Before Cheng Ying could fully decipher the sigh, a small, elderly woman burst from the room. “You damned scoundrel, you shameless thing! Who’s joining your family? Our Old Cheng family has been poor peasants for eight generations; we wouldn't produce a little landlord brat like you! You capitalist running dog! Let me tell you, letting you into our family door was because we didn't look down on you—your family's ancestral graves must have smoked! With your background, never mind two years ago, even now if I reported you to the brigade, you’d lose half your skin! I dare you to lay a finger on my Yingzi!”

Cheng Ying froze, stunned by the sudden, unexpected tirade. The only part of her that moved were her ears, listening, while she saw her stepfather’s hands trembling violently—he was clearly shaken.

Then her mother stood behind the stepfather, bracing him, presumably afraid he would faint.

Cheng Ying thought with a strange detachment, So the White Lotus turned out to be a man? That thought, at this moment, seemed utterly misplaced.

Suddenly, Cheng Ying felt a warm body press close behind her. She recognized the scent instantly—it was her maternal grandmother.

The old woman was backing her up.

Cheng Ying’s eyes stung with tears. No one had protected her like this for so many years—such unconditional, nonsensical defense.

This was her Cheng Ying’s grandmother. The sharp, thin-lipped expression in Cheng Ying’s eyes instantly softened into one of profound tenderness.

From now on, Cheng Ying thought, your granddaughter will dote on you.

The old woman reached out and stroked her eldest granddaughter's hair. “Yingzi, our family’s background is excellent. We don’t stoop to the level of class enemies.” This was arguably the most erudite thing the old woman had ever uttered.

Cheng Ying turned to look at her grandmother, then at the woman holding a fire poker, standing in a pigeon-toed stance, her face a reverse triangle—the very image of a literary villain.

Yet, it was this sight that caused the resentment built up over so many years inside Cheng Ying to instantly shatter.

The old woman’s words struck a single, taut string within Cheng Ying’s heart.

A string that had remained tightly bound from the moment she died of anger until this moment of rebirth, now snapped in an instant.

If in her previous life she had someone who cherished her without question, someone she could lean on anytime.

Could she have lived such a hard life? Would her temperament have grown so vengeful?

In her past life, in the eyes of others, she was merely a shrewd, pragmatic woman obsessed with making money to get by.

Otherwise, she wouldn’t have been deserted by another woman.

This Cheng Ying was blessed—to have such a grandmother. But now, this grandmother belonged to her.

Cheng Ying threw her arms around the old woman and began to sob uncontrollably. The sound startled the three close relatives nearby.

The small courtyard instantly became chaotic, with a crowd gathering outside the picket fence.

Yang Zhi looked mortified, and Chi Yong didn’t know where to stand.

The old woman, focused only on hugging her granddaughter, paid attention to nothing else. A child without a father’s love was especially precious.

Cheng Ying cried wholeheartedly: crying for her past grievances, crying for the turmoil of living again after death.

Crying for the panic she felt in her thirties, unmarried and without prospects, before she died of anger.

Crying that even in death, no one truly cared for her.

Crying that in this life, she wouldn't be looked down upon for being poor—it was a time when everyone was poor.

Crying for the lost opportunities with men who lacked vision, and lamenting that even after managing this difficult transmigration, she landed in such an awkward era.

She couldn't even become a pioneer of the times; in this era, if you had money, you were breaking the law.

A painful contradiction.

If you had money, you still had nowhere to find food; life was hard.

But there was one good thing: no one could criticize her origins anymore; no one would scorn her poverty.

Facing the empty courtyard, Cheng Ying roared out a single phrase: “My ancestors were poor peasants for eight generations!”

The cry was exhilarating, finally expressing the hardship of half a life lived, enabling her to hold her head high because of poverty.

The old woman nodded along. “Yingzi, our Old Cheng family has a good background. Count back eight generations, and they were all hired hands; they didn't even own a scrap of land.”

The old woman was simply saying what pleased her granddaughter, comforting her.

Women can sometimes be wildly unreasonable and capricious, and Cheng Ying was certainly one of them. When feeling cherished, a woman becomes even more delicate.

Hearing the old woman’s words, Cheng Ying felt a sharp pang of sorrow. What was fate? An inherently poor fate, passed down through generations.

Even after rebirth, counting back eight generations they were all poor folk—was fate trying too hard to oppress her?

This sorrow was bitter.

Tears streamed down her face, and she couldn’t tell if she preferred being poor or being comfortable with wealth.

Thinking this, Cheng Ying cursed heaven; old heavens were too wicked.

To let her pass away halfway through life without even a single lingering desire. In her thirties, without a child or a man to leave behind—where would children come from without a man? Cheng Ying was losing focus.

This life, too, seemed destined for suffering, generational suffering.

As this thought of wicked heaven circulated in her mind, Cheng Ying’s head began to ache. She couldn’t speak, managing only a few choked sounds before passing out.

In the end, all Cheng Ying thought was that in this life, she would live for one thing alone.

To find someone who would always support her, someone she could always rely on. Someone who would stand by her side, regardless of right or wrong.