Though my contact with Father over the years had been limited to a few mailed letters—most likely carefully polished by his so-called Miss Secretary—
I still understood him quite clearly: he never got up early unless there was something in it for him.
My hands gently brushed the two cotton balls that blocked part of my view, feeling their thickness and presence, and I became all the more keenly aware that I was now a lively young girl full of youth.
Back in the timeline before I became a catgirl, I remembered it very clearly—Mother had never once taken me back to the ancestral home to pay respects, like she did today.
Sometimes in my dreams, the line between realities would blur, and I couldn’t quite tell which side was the real me. Maybe the me from before I transmigrated was just a long, drunken dream I had—
Whenever I awoke from such dreams, I’d pat my chest uncertainly and check for familiar features, just to make sure.
A mischievous cat tail would come probing, gently brushing my palm, as if an adorable kitten were acting spoiled with its owner, coaxing me back to sleep.
The sensation of my cat ears pressed against the soft memory pillow was so real, sending feedback directly into my mind, reminding me that, here and now, I truly existed as a catgirl.
“Child… don’t worry…”
The sound of slippers shuffling across the stone floor—”zi-la”—and my grandmother’s gentle, emotional voice drifted over.
She walked slowly to my side, placing her hand gently on the back of my neck, just like she used to with the little catgirl who was too mischievous in childhood, softly pressing the acupoints with her rough old hand.
“It’s not the old days anymore… No one can force little Zhinian to do anything she doesn’t want to. Grandma has lived all these years and still has a hefty dowry set aside for when you find a husband—no need to worry.”
After saying this, Grandma’s thin arms wrapped around my waist, as if comforting a child who’d gotten hurt.
“Mmm! Grandma… am I just useless?”
How long had it been since I’d felt such warmth?
Mother never treated me this way. On the day she divorced Father, I helped her pack, crying as I went, unable to control my own fear and anxiety.
Mother just listened to my sobbing with a blank expression. When we’d nearly finished and were about to leave for the taxi, she suddenly grabbed me by the neck and tossed me onto the sofa.
I can’t really remember the words she scolded me with afterward—my brain’s self-defense mechanism must have handled the worst of it and distilled it into one simple theme.
“I’ll only support you until you’re grown. Don’t always expect to rely on others. No one’s going to love you unconditionally. Stop dreaming. If you can’t learn to stand on your own, go hang out by the trash cans with the vagrants and beg for food.”
Even now, I still felt a bone-deep dread whenever I recalled the frosty look on Mother’s face that day. Just thinking about it sent an unspeakable despair spreading through my heart.
I could understand the pain Mother endured after Father’s abrupt ‘affair,’ how deeply it must have hurt her.
But she rarely showed those emotions outwardly; only on the day of the divorce did she lose control and let the torrent of negative feelings pour out on me.
After that, Mother never laid a hand on me again, but she never doted on me like she had when I was little—hugging me every day, coaxing me to eat, taking me sightseeing and shopping.
She threw herself into work. At most, when she was irritated, she’d toss a wad of red cash at me for living expenses before rushing out the door, not wanting to exchange another word.
It was as if some mysterious force bound her, obligating her to care for me—a hated enemy.
Grandma’s gentle massage at my nape continued. At some point, tears had started welling at the corners of my eyes, hanging there, refusing to fall.
Grandma led me over to the vine swing she’d specifically asked to have built. The seat was made for two, so even with us both sitting, there was plenty of room.
“No crying now. Who said our little Zhinian is useless? Grandma may not have a sharp tongue for scolding them, but with my age, I can at least say a word or two. Little Zhinian has grown tall and lovely, still a beautiful little catgirl, and your journey is just beginning. They’re only jealous, that’s all.”
Her gentle words soothed the unease in my heart. Truthfully, I’d wondered about the real reason Father kept in contact with me, but my own guesses seemed so far-fetched I didn’t dare believe them.
Consoled by Grandma, I sniffled and wiped away the tears clinging to my lashes with a tissue from my skirt pocket.
“That’s better. A catgirl can’t go around looking like a little tabby with a tear-stained face. You have to show yourself proudly.”
Grandma smiled at me, her eyes tinged with nostalgia—perhaps recalling her own youth.
I remembered once finding a small photo album in a drawer of the inner room. The photos of Grandma in her youth were so different from Mother.
If I had to put it in today’s terms… she was the very image of a young lady from a noble family: delicate features, gazing softly at the camera, nothing like Mother’s constant coldness and indifference.
It was a pity that after so many years living with Grandfather, whose temper was violent, even Grandma’s ageless catgirl features hadn’t prevented her hair from turning white, and her smile from becoming stiff.
In fact, whenever Grandfather was around, she was always timid, careful with every word and movement, never daring to interfere.
I leaned lightly against Grandma’s bony shoulder, lowering my voice.
“Grandma, you know the real reason why Mom brought me back this time, don’t you? Can you tell me? What does Dad… Lin want me to do?”
People are complicated, and sometimes a single day is enough to change someone’s temperament.
But as the saying goes, rivers and mountains are easy to move, but one’s nature is hard to change. Most of the time, no matter how much time passes, people’s habits remain the same, like a stubborn clod of mud that refuses to budge.
Maybe I was just too calculating, or maybe at heart I was rotten to the core.
Once calm, my first instinct was to make use of Grandma’s concern for me and try to probe for useful information.
“…Sigh, your father, he…”
It was clear that Father’s deliberate return to the old home to meet with me and Mother had left Grandma deeply conflicted.
Her brows furrowed tightly, and she hesitated for a long time, probably choosing her words carefully.
“Just tell me directly, Grandma. I won’t lose control—I just want to prepare myself mentally.”