My son posted a status update, visible only to me.

"Being reincarnated is really a technical skill. I envy classmates who were born in Rome. The two in my family are so ordinary it makes you despair."

The attached photo showed me and his dad from behind, standing in the kitchen, wearing old clothes washed so many times they'd faded to nothing.

My phone buzzed again. A private message from him.

"Next weekend my college classmates are getting together. Everyone's bringing their parents. You two shouldn't come. I'm afraid of being embarrassed. Transfer me $5,000. I'll treat them to a nicer hotel dinner instead."

I stood frozen.

So the son I'd raised for twenty-eight years saw us as an unpresentable flaw in his life. Even more ridiculous—less than five minutes after posting, he deleted the status. He thought I didn't see it.

I laughed suddenly and turned to my husband.

"Don't give that ungrateful brat the Clearwater Bay villa as a wedding gift. We'll keep it for ourselves. Perfect for retirement."

——

Early the next morning, Alex Mason Jr. called.

His tone carried the usual impatience. "Mom, did you transfer the money? I need it urgently. Best if it hits my account before noon."

I held the phone steady. "What money?"

"Didn't I tell you last night? The class reunion!" His voice pitched higher, demanding. "Five thousand! If you're not coming, you've got to pay up, right? Otherwise where am I supposed to put my pride?"

"Oh, that." I kept my voice even. "I discussed it with your dad. We've decided to go."

Dead silence.

A few seconds later, his roar nearly blew out the receiver.

"Alex Whitney, you did this on purpose, didn't you? I clearly told you not to come! Wearing your flea-market junk—what, are you going to tell my classmates how you haggle over twenty cents at the farmers market?"

His words pierced something in my chest.

I took a deep breath and let my voice go cold. "We're your parents. Not your stain."

"You are!" He didn't hold back, tearing me down to nothing. "Do you know what kind of leader my roommate's dad is? Do you know how rich the family is of the girl I like? If you show up, how am I supposed to keep moving in that circle?"

I cut him off, my tone icing over. "So we gave birth to you, raised you, paid for your art degree—and in your eyes, we're only good for embarrassing you?"

"Then what else?" He laughed, smug and certain. "Other than giving me this life, what decent resources have you ever provided? My classmates—their families set them up with jobs right after graduation. Bought them houses. Cars. And me? I'm stuck teaching kids to paint in this crappy little town. If you two had any ability at all, would I have to struggle this hard?"

I listened to him spill complaint after complaint.

Before, I would've felt the ache. Would've blamed myself for not being capable enough, for holding my son back.

Now? I just found it laughable.

"Are you done?"

He hadn't expected that. He choked on his next words.

"There's no $5,000." My voice was final. "The reunion—your dad and I will be there. What we wear, what we say, is our business. Take it or leave it."

He sputtered, struggling to form words.

I kept going. "And starting today, I won't give you another cent."

"Fine! You've got guts!" He was grinding his teeth now. "Fine! Come then. Don't regret it. When the time comes, you two will be the ones looking bad. And when you're old—don't expect me to take care of you!"

"Couldn't ask for more."

I hung up.

My old man came out of the kitchen, spatula still in hand—he'd clearly heard most of it. He looked at me and sighed.

"Should've been like this a long time ago. A too-soft mom ruins her kid."

"You saw that post too?" I asked.

He nodded, expression calm. "Old neighbor took a screenshot and sent it to me. Said your son blocked everyone—just forgot to block him."

So he'd known all along. He just saw me always giving in, and it wasn't his place to say anything.

"So next weekend?" I asked.

"We're going." Alex set the spatula down, voice fired up. "Our son thinks I'm embarrassing? Let's see who embarrasses who."

We really did prepare to go looking ordinary. I hit the farmers market and bought a floral shirt for fifty bucks. Alex dug out his old work pants from his factory days.

Junior called a few more times—threatening, begging, cursing, the whole circus. I blocked his number.

On the day of the reunion, we took the bus, swaying for over an hour before reaching the hotel. Sure enough, the moment we got to the entrance, Junior came rushing over, face dark as a storm cloud.

He was wearing a suit he'd borrowed from god knows where. When he saw us, his eyes practically shot fire.

"You actually came!" He kept his voice low, teeth gritted. "Dressed like this? I'm really impressed."

"Wasn't it you who said we weren't ordinary enough?" I swept him a glance. "This is called returning to simplicity."

"You—!" His chest heaved, but he was too worried about classmates approaching from a distance. "Once you're inside, keep your mouths shut!"

I ignored him, linked my arm through Alex's, and walked straight in.

The moment we entered, the lively chatter went quiet. Every gaze landed on us—curious, scrutinizing.

Junior's face flushed crimson, like he wanted to find a crack in the floor and disappear. He forced a smile and introduced us stiffly. "These are my parents. They were just passing by, so they stopped in."

Someone greeted us half-heartedly. A woman in heavy makeup covered her mouth and giggled. "Junior's parents are really... simple."

That got a few low snickers. Junior's head dropped even lower.

But Alex and I acted like we hadn't heard. We found two empty seats and sat down.

The girl Junior had been crushing on since college was there too—Vivian James. She glanced at us, and disgust flickered in her eyes.

During the meal, parents exchanged pleasantries. When it was Junior's turn to introduce us, he hemmed and hawed. "My parents are just ordinary retired factory workers."

"Oh, workers are good. Steady." Someone brushed it off.

"Right, unlike us—running a business, we're on edge all day." Vivian's mom picked up the thread, smiling smugly. "This year we opened two more locations. So busy we barely have time to manage Vivian. Good thing the kid's got talent—got into the State Theater all on her own."

Junior looked at Vivian, gaze infatuated. Then he looked at us, full of resentment.

Right then, Alex—who hadn't said a word the whole time—picked up his teacup, took a sip, and frowned.

"This tea is aged pu-erh, but it wasn't stored properly. It's got a moldy smell." He set the cup down. "For a hotel to serve guests tea like this—that's not decent."

The whole room fell silent.

"Uncle, you know tea?" Vivian's mom raised her eyebrows, tone skeptical.

Alex set the teacup down, voice flat.

"When I was young, I worked at a tea company for more than ten years. Visited quite a few producing regions. I wouldn't say I really understand it—just some surface-level knowledge."

He spoke unhurriedly, yet somehow came across more confident than all the bosses at the table who loved talking big.

"Oh? Is that so?"

A man who claimed to be some bureau leader perked up with interest. "Then tell us—what's not authentic about this tea?"

Alex didn't refuse.

In just a few sentences, he broke it down—the liquor's color, aroma, taste. His logic was clear, his terminology professional.

The leader nodded along as he listened. "Makes sense. Looks like this hotel's kind of fooling people."

The way he looked at Alex carried noticeably more respect.

Junior was completely stunned. He'd never known his dad could do this.

Someone tossed the topic to me. "Auntie, what kind of work do you do? Before retirement, were you a worker too?"

I glanced at Junior.

He stared at me nervously, terrified I'd say something embarrassing.

I smiled. "Me? I don't have a formal job. Just stay home and take care of the two of them. Cook, wash clothes."

Junior visibly relaxed. There was even a trace of "just as I thought" contempt on his face.

Vivian's mom's smile deepened. "Homemakers are great too—raising such an outstanding child."

Junior immediately straightened his chest.

But I continued. "If I'm idle, I'm idle, so I like to mess around and figure things out. A few years ago I followed a community teacher and learned a bit about financial management. Took a little money and tried my hand at it—my luck was pretty good."

"Financial management?"

Vivian's mom's smile faded a bit, her eyes full of disbelief. "Auntie, you even play with that? Stocks are risky—you have to be careful."

"I don't do stocks." I waved my hand and chuckled. "I just buy some funds, invest in companies I like. Like MicroTech Technology. Three years ago I felt its new tech had potential, so I put in a fixed amount every month."

"MicroTech Technology?"

That leader from earlier sat up straight. "That's a huge winner—it's gone up almost tenfold!"

Vivian's mom's expression stiffened.

Her family did business, but she didn't understand the financial market at all.

Junior was completely dumbfounded, looking at me like he'd seen a ghost.

"Luck. It was all luck." I said modestly, then as if something had just occurred to me, turned to Alex. "Oh right, old man—the retirement place we reserved at Clearwater Bay, the sales rep just messaged saying we can handle the paperwork next week."

"Clearwater Bay?"

Someone at the table cried out in surprise. "That lakeside villa community? Even the smallest unit starts at five million, right?"

Alex nodded. "Yueran likes how quiet it is there. We reserved an end unit with a small yard—she wants to plant some flowers."

The private room went dead silent.

Junior's face had already gone from flushed red to deathly pale. He looked at me, then at his dad, his lips trembling, unable to say a single word.

Vivian—the one he'd been thinking about nonstop—looked at us directly for the first time, her eyes full of curiosity and scrutiny.

I picked up my teacup and, copying Alex, took a small sip. Sure enough, it wasn't as good as the one at home.

For the rest of the reunion, the atmosphere turned strange.

People kept coming over, trying to talk to us. They asked about financial management tips, or for details about Clearwater Bay. Alex and I handled it appropriately—neither going into depth nor letting things go cold.

Junior sat there like a wooden dummy. Not a single sentence of the "independent, self-made" speech he'd carefully prepared could come out.

The gathering finally broke up.

Junior was almost fleeing as he became the first to rush out of the private room, not even saying goodbye to his classmates.