"Let's go, Han Yong! Come downstairs and see the car your son bought for you!"
Ma Honglian was even more excited than Han Yong. Without even putting on her coat, she was ready to head out the door in her cotton slippers.
"My chicken..."
Han Yong, filled with a sense of responsibility, was worried about his stewed chicken, only to be rudely interrupted by Ma Honglian.
"Enough already! That cooking of yours is barely passable—it won't kill anyone, at most. You think you're fit to serve my son? Forget the chicken! We're going out to eat later!"
Ma Honglian had clearly been repressed for too long; today, she was somewhat floating on air.
