Chapter 736: Ordinary Life

Rosalind Green’s expression changed slightly. She forced a smile. "He... he’s busy with something. He doesn’t have time."

"Your husband is really something, getting rich wherever he goes! Oh my, is that a box of pastries from Crown Garden? You’ve really struck it rich!"

A sharp-eyed neighbor recognized the pastry box in Adrian Hawthorne’s hand. It was from Crown Garden, a time-honored brand in Tristone. Their pastries weren’t cheap, and ordinary families couldn’t bear to buy them for themselves—at least, not these neighbors.

"Not at all, we’re just living an ordinary life."

Rosalind Green exchanged a few polite words, but no one believed her. This wasn’t what an "ordinary life" looked like. Their own lives were what you’d call ordinary—having to calculate every expense, stretching every penny as far as it would go. What Rosalind had was a *life*; what they had was merely survival.

"Hurry on home. Your mom and dad have missed you to death. Oh, and your brother got married! You have a nephew now, he’s already eight years old," a kind-faced old woman stepped in, rescuing her from the crowd.

"I know. My mom mentioned it in her letters, but I’ve never met him. I’ll head on home now."

Rosalind Green smiled and said her goodbyes. She knew about her young nephew. His name was Dalton Green, chosen by her father. The meaning was obvious: he hoped his grandson would become a master painter.

Mr. Green had studied art for a while in his youth and had some talent for it. Unfortunately, his family wasn’t well-off, and then the war broke out. He had no choice but to give up painting and become a schoolteacher. He still painted in his spare time; his skill wasn’t exceptional, but it wasn’t bad either. Rosalind Green could also paint, but her talent was severely lacking.

As for her brother, Liam Green, his talent was even worse than hers. He couldn’t even grasp the basics, and his academics were poor, too. If he didn’t look so much like their father, Mr. Green might have suspected the boy wasn’t his.

’But according to Mom’s letters, my nephew is quite talented in art. He probably won’t disappoint Father, will he?’

Adrian Hawthorne followed silently behind her, not saying a word. When they passed people, he just smiled. He didn’t know a single person or what to call them, so smiling was the safest bet.

It was dinnertime, and the stairwell was filled with the aromas of all sorts of dishes. Space was utilized to the absolute maximum in Tristone; even the stairwells were put to use, creating the city’s unique "pavilion rooms"—small rooms built into the bends of the staircases. They were originally for servants, freezing in the winter and sweltering in the summer, both cramped and stuffy.

Adrian Hawthorne glanced into one of the pavilion rooms. A family of six was crowded into a room of about a hundred square feet, huddled around a small table for dinner. There were only two bowls of food and one small saucer. Adrian Hawthorne had sharp eyes; with just a fleeting glance, he could make out what they were eating.

One bowl of stir-fried greens, one bowl of potherb mustard with dried tofu. On the small saucer was less than half a cube of fermented bean curd. Judging by its appearance, it looked like they’d been eating it for a while. Each family member would just lightly tap it with their chopsticks before taking a mouthful. Adrian Hawthorne suspected their chopsticks barely even touched the bean curd; no wonder such a small piece could last so long.

Rosalind Green didn’t recognize the family. A decade had passed, residents had come and gone, and not many of the old neighbors were left. When they reached the second floor, the landing was crowded with stoves. Rosalind Green’s eyes instantly welled up. She saw her family’s home, but the door was shut tight.

"These two rooms are ours, and we have one more on the third floor."

Rosalind Green pointed. Outside these two rooms, there were also piles of miscellaneous items and cooking stations, but they were kept neat and tidy, and the hallway was swept clean. The areas in front of the neighboring two rooms looked much messier.

She knocked on the door, and an old woman’s voice came from inside. "Who is it?"

Rosalind Green couldn’t hold back her tears. She called out, "Mom, it’s me! It’s Rosalind!"