In fact, even if the elderly Mrs. Mo had not mentioned it, Mo Qingyi could have guessed something.
The matter that the elderly Mrs. Mo wanted to discuss with her was probably related to her own origins, or perhaps it had to do with the whole Mo family.
Ever since she could remember, she had no memories of her father in her mind, and the elderly Mrs. Mo had also never taken the initiative to mention her father to her.
Strangely, during her childhood, she never felt a lack of fatherly love.
For her, the role of father was dispensable.
Her mother and brother were her everything.
Although her brother was as cold as an unmelt-able iceberg, in her eyes, he was the best brother in the world.
She remembered failing her college entrance exams last year and crying as she called Mo Zhixuan. Less than thirty minutes after hanging up, Mo Zhixuan appeared, having left behind an important collaboration to cross half of Capital City just to see her, just to say, "It’s okay, your brother is here."
She never thought that her brother, usually so aloof, would say such words.
It was from then on that she made up her mind to study hard, choosing to take a gap year, so as not to let her brother down again.
Upon reflection, from her childhood to the present, Mo Zhixuan had cleaned up so many messes for her.
The mother and daughter walked to the study together.
The atmosphere was somewhat quiet, and a bit subdued.
Even though she had mentally prepared herself, Mo Qingyi still felt a bit panicky.
"Qingqing, you sit first; I’ll go get something," the elderly Mrs. Mo led her to the sofa in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows to sit down, then turned to enter the inner room.
"Okay," Mo Qingyi nodded obediently, but felt somewhat at a loss.
When the elderly Mrs. Mo came out again, she had a carried handbag with her.
An old-fashioned carried handbag with purple and blue patterns, filled with the air of bygone days, well preserved by its owner, without a single sign of damage on its body.
Mo Qingyi’s heart raced at the sight of that handbag, experiencing a suffocating sensation.
"Qingqing, you’ve grown up, and there are some things I can no longer hide from you," the elderly Mrs. Mo said while opening the carried handbag, her voice very calm, but her eyes slightly red.
"Mom..." Mo Qingyi opened her mouth, wanting to speak but stopping herself.
The elderly Mrs. Mo took out a piece of red paper, a yellowed plastic milk bottle, and a set of baby clothes from the bag.
Although she knew that the truth might be very cruel for Mo Qingyi, the elderly Mrs. Mo felt she had to speak today; the child had grown up and had the right to make her own choices.
Better she hears about her origins from her mother than from the mouth of others.
"Qingqing, I’ve always treated you as my own daughter, but I must tell you the truth — I am not your biological mother," sighed the elderly Mrs. Mo, and continued, "Eighteen years ago, when our family had just moved to Capital City, I remember that day, the snow was falling heavily, I went out on an errand, and as soon as I arrived on the street, I saw a crowd of people pointing and heard a baby crying. I went over, and that’s how I found you, your little face frozen red and your lips turning blue, the umbilical cord still on your stomach. Onlookers were saying that the child would not survive the night, but I refused to believe it and brought you home, raising you to this day..."
As she spoke, the elderly Mrs. Mo’s voice gradually became hoarse, as the scene from that day on the street eighteen years ago seemed to emerge before her eyes.
There were many onlookers, but not one offered warmth to the infant.
There was even a couple who quietly made off with the only token the child had.
Who knows what kind of family could heartlessly abandon such a small infant on the streets in the heavy snow?
It can be said that without the elderly Mrs. Mo, there would be no Mo Qingyi today.
Mo Qingyi’s face had turned deathly pale.
Blood seemed to flow backward in her body.
Understanding something in your heart is one thing; hearing it with your own ears is another.
"Mom, you’re joking with me, right?" Mo Qingyi’s voice choked, as she struggled to squeeze out a complete sentence. She feared that if she spoke one more word, her emotions would come pouring out.