As the line twitched and the float dipped, Jiang Hai flicked his wrist, hooking the fish cleanly through the mouth.
"Splash!" The fish, startled and in pain, leaped out of the water, flailing wildly.
"Whoa! That's a big one—be careful!" Xia Yuan exclaimed, her eyes wide as she watched the fish leap.
Jiang Hai glanced at the thrashing creature. It looked to be about sixty centimeters long, roughly seven pounds. It was hard to gauge a carp's weight precisely—they varied greatly in girth and density—but Jiang Hai made a quick estimate and decided that was about right. He began reeling it in cautiously; after all, this wasn't his rod, and if it broke, that'd be awkward.
After some careful maneuvering, he brought the fish close to the shore. Xia Yuan stepped forward, silently lowered her net, and with a sharp scoop, caught the fish. But it struggled fiercely, nearly pulling her into the water.
Still, Xia Yuan wasn't someone easily shaken. Her strength—clearly the result of juggling multiple jobs over the years—came through. With a firm pull, she hurled the fish onto the nearby grass. It flopped about in the net, but Xia Yuan grinned triumphantly.
"This one's more than enough for the stew," she said, beaming.
"Let's catch a few smaller crucian carp to fry," Jiang Hai added with a nod.
Switching to a smaller hook, he baited it with fresh earthworms he'd dug up earlier and cast his line again. The fish here seemed starved—his bait barely hit the water before getting bites. This time, Jiang Hai didn't bother dragging the fish in slowly; he simply hauled them out. Two palm-sized crucian carp were the first to emerge—double catch!
Over the next half hour, he pulled up a total of thirteen crucian carp, ranging from half-palm to full-palm in size. Xia Yuan seemed thrilled, gathering them all up carefully.
"Let's go pick up my daughter," she said, satisfied. Clearly, she wasn't planning to fish anymore.
Jiang Hai smiled and walked with her to a nearby kindergarten. At 4 p.m., the children were dismissed, and a beautiful mixed-race girl in a little floral dress came skipping out.
"Baby!" Xia Yuan called, running to her and scooping her up.
The girl looked curiously at Jiang Hai, her large eyes filled with a mix of curiosity and wariness. Who was this unfamiliar uncle standing beside her mom?
"Come on, let me introduce you. This is my precious daughter, Xia Xueyao. Her English name is Joyce. Honey, this is Uncle Jiang Hai. He's joining us for dinner tonight."
Hearing this, the little girl gave a timid, polite nod. "Hello, Uncle Jiang."
Jiang Hai couldn't help but smile warmly.
They returned to Xia Yuan's apartment, a modest two-bedroom, one-living-room unit around fifty square meters in size. Jiang Hai took in his surroundings. The place was undeniably aged. The TV still had a bulky backside, and the yellowed air conditioner looked ancient. Dim lights flickered overhead—likely due to efforts to save on electricity.
To be honest, it felt like stepping into the 1990s.
Despite its shabbiness, the apartment was spotless. Xia Yuan clearly took pride in her home.
"Take a seat, relax. I'll get started on the cooking," she said, already heading toward the small kitchen. Jiang Hai took a glance inside but quickly gave up any thoughts of helping—the kitchen was too cramped.
Looking around, he saw two bedrooms. The larger one was likely Xia Yuan's, and the smaller, cozier one had to belong to her daughter.
Some might be surprised that such a young girl already had her own room—but in the U.S., that's common. The education system here promotes independence from an early age, and Xia Xueyao having her own space was expected.
Jiang Hai sat on the sofa, and the little girl quietly settled down nearby, watching cartoons. She didn't fuss or ask questions—just peeked at him occasionally, then returned her focus to the screen.
Jiang Hai's thoughts began to wander.
He couldn't just sit and watch cartoons with a four-year-old, after all.
As he stared at the screen absentmindedly, he found himself thinking about the differences between Chinese and American education.
In China, despite its socialist label, education was a pressure cooker. From the moment children could walk, they were thrown into academic competition. Every parent wanted their child to be "better than others," and that toxic phrase—"other people's children"—had haunted Jiang Hai's generation.
In truth, while pushing their kids, Chinese parents were often pushing themselves too—spending money, time, and energy on teachers, tutors, and favors.
Jiang Hai remembered clearly: during his school days, every holiday involved his parents buying gifts for teachers—just so he'd get preferential treatment. Whether it was being dressed first in kindergarten or being chosen to answer questions, everything hinged on who gave what.
He even remembered a classmate with a speech impairment and dismal grades who, thanks to his father's bribe—a brand-new laptop—was appointed class monitor.
Who could he complain to about that?
But things weren't the same in America. Sure, there might still be a few rotten apples, but the norm was vastly different. From what Jiang Hai had seen near Winthrop, gifts didn't buy your kid a title.
Here, leadership had to be earned—even in preschool. To become a leader, kids needed to be helpful, responsible, and well-liked.
Each class had three rotating leaders: one to open doors, one to guide the group, and one to turn off lights. Every child got a turn.
By elementary school, teachers stepped back even further. No more hand-holding. If you wanted to be class president or club leader, you had to campaign for it—not bribe someone.
Jiang Hai couldn't say which system was better.
On one hand, if he stayed in China, his wealth could give his kids an edge. On the other, raising a child in the U.S. could save him money—and maybe raise someone independent.
"Dinner's ready!" Xia Yuan called out, pulling Jiang Hai from his thoughts.
He smiled and headed into the kitchen to wash his hands. On the counter, he saw a steaming bowl of fish stew and a plate of golden fried crucian carp.
Jiang Hai brought them out. Xia Yuan, just about to help, noticed and said nothing. Instead, she cleared the table and grabbed a couple of beers from the fridge.
"Come on, let's eat!" she said, settling down at the table with her daughter in her arms. After greeting Jiang Hai, she picked up a piece of fish and carefully deboned it before placing it in her daughter's bowl.
Watching the tender expression on her face, Jiang Hai suddenly felt a pang of longing. He had been with many women over the years, but none had borne him a child.
"What's wrong? Dig in," Xia Yuan said, noticing his blank stare.
"Oh, right—haha," Jiang Hai chuckled awkwardly. He picked up a piece of fish, took a bite, and instantly raised an eyebrow.
The flavor hit him with a wave of nostalgia.
It tasted almost exactly like the fish stew from his childhood—back when good meals were rare. In those days, China's economy was still developing, and dishes like this were true luxuries.
Nowadays, Jiang Hai lived in a world of gourmet food. Qi Ya, with her culinary talent, cooked like a pro, blending Chinese and Western dishes masterfully. And with the premium ingredients from his own estate, he thought he'd tasted it all.
But this fish stew? It rivaled even Qi Ya's cooking.
"Tasty, right?" Xia Yuan said, grinning. "Told you so. We Northeasterners can't resist this stuff. It's my dad's recipe—he used to be a chef."
They opened the beers. Xia Yuan took a bite of fish, then a sip of beer. Jiang Hai followed suit, nodding with satisfaction.
"So how do you cook this exactly?" he asked, scooping up a piece of tofu soaked in broth.
"It's all about the ingredients," she explained. "Big fish, preferably wild. Then you need tofu, vermicelli, cabbage, pork belly, mushrooms, potatoes, green chilies, dried red chilies, onions, ginger, garlic, salt, cooking wine, sugar, soy sauce, Sichuan peppercorns, star anise, cinnamon—and the most important parts: schisandra chinensis and perilla leaves."
She continued, "First, you prep the fish and fry it for three or four minutes. Then add broth—enough to just cover it. Boil on high for five minutes, then simmer on low for twenty. After that, toss in the vermicelli, potatoes, and mushrooms. After ten minutes, add tofu and white tea. Simmer another five minutes, and you're done."
Listening to her detailed explanation, Jiang Hai's head spun. So many steps…
Cooking it once or twice might be fine—but regularly? No thanks.
Still, while he might not enjoy cooking, he definitely enjoyed eating. Jiang Hai dug into the stew and fish, savoring every bite. Even Xia Xueyao joined in with enthusiasm. Mealtime felt warm and full—a proper family scene.
After the meal, they kept drinking. Though they'd just met, being from the same hometown gave them common ground. As they chatted, they discovered they'd even attended the same junior high school. Back in the day, people rarely had the means to pick their school—most just went to the nearest one.
This alumni bond made the drinks go down even smoother.
Unnoticed, time slipped by. Around 8 p.m., Xia Xueyao went to bed. But Jiang Hai and Xia Yuan kept drinking, laughing, and reminiscing.
By the time Jiang Hai glanced at his watch again, it was already 10 p.m.
The beer was gone. Every bottle in the fridge—finished.
He looked at the empty bottles on the floor. He must've had at least twenty. Xia Yuan had knocked back fifteen or sixteen herself.
(To be continued...)