Early one morning, she received a call from her assistant in Washington.
There was a hint of urgency in his voice. The full repainting project at that restaurant had run into trouble. During the work, the painters had also painted over a few rusty doors and windows. What had been a casual, almost instinctive gesture unexpectedly enraged the restaurant owner. Those old doors and windows had been deliberately preserved to maintain the space's character, and now, with the paint covering them, the "flavor" was gone—the carefully cultivated loft atmosphere ruined. The owner refused to pay for the paint or labor, filed a lawsuit, demanded compensation, and insisted that Li Ming appear in court personally.
Li Ming fell silent for a moment after hearing this. So many things seemed simple in theory, yet in reality, they always took on a different shape.
That night, she went over arrangements with her older brother regarding her father and younger brother, and the next day she headed back to Washington.
During the trial, she shuttled daily between the courthouse and her office. The restaurant owner was stubborn, insisting that the doors and windows be restored to their original condition, and the compensation amount he demanded was exorbitant. In court, arguments and evidence were presented, dissected point by point. Sitting there, listening to each detail being parsed and debated, Li Ming felt the strain mounting. What had started as a minor oversight by the workers had, once in the legal system, been magnified under a microscope—everything became complicated.
Her lawyer, however, remained calm. Step by step, he explained that the doors and windows were already badly rusted and difficult to maintain, and the painters' actions were not malicious—they had acted according to standard practice. After several rounds of negotiation, he proposed a compromise: partially restore the doors and windows to preserve their aged texture as much as possible, while minimizing the compensation amount.
After several weeks, the owner finally agreed. Both parties signed a settlement, and the matter was closed.
That day, stepping out of the courthouse, the Washington sunlight felt unusually warm. Standing on the steps, Li Ming suddenly felt lighter. The lawsuit had never been a major problem, yet the tension weighing on her these past days had finally begun to dissipate.
Life quickly returned to its usual rhythm.
Every morning she arrived at the office, reviewing drawings, replying to emails, arranging materials and schedules, and then visiting the construction sites. Work sites were never as orderly as the drawings suggested. Workers had their habits, foremen had their ways. On a previous project, one foreman found the plans cumbersome and altered the wall design on his own. Only after completing it did he realize the dimensions were wrong—everything had to be torn down and redone. Those days were exhausting and chaotic.
Clients, too, were not always easy to handle. Some changed their minds about confirmed plans, others pressed for faster progress, and still others requested last-minute modifications to layouts. Li Ming often had to explain on site while mentally recalculating time and costs. Sometimes, she felt that her work was no longer just about design—it was about constantly managing the relationships between people.
Gradually, she grew accustomed to this rhythm. Days were spent moving between office and construction site; evenings were for herself, making a cup of red tea and sitting quietly by the window. Occasionally, she called home to Harbin, listening to her father recount a few household matters, or to her younger brother's silly laughter over the phone.
Life in Washington moved like this: ordinary on the surface, yet each day brought something new. Design, construction, disputes, rework, and eventual completion—many of the city's spaces were slowly taking shape through this repeated cycle.
And Li Ming, in the midst of these days, gradually learned how to live with reality, one step at a time.