"Life is like a steamer basket full of buns. No one knows what filling the next one will have."
"Life itself is the best novelist, because no one can guess what kind of scene will appear next."
Li Mu Yang's mind was blank. Yet within that white void, the famous words of two sages—both expressing the same meaning—kept flashing through his thoughts.
When Li Mu Yang heard Lu Qingming say that he was his son, his heart was rocked by storming waves, and he was utterly shaken.
For more than a decade, he had believed himself to be Li Yan's son, Luo Qi's son, and Li Sinian's elder brother. That belief had taken root deep within his mind, every hair on his body, every bone, and every drop of blood.
What was more, Li Mu Yang had clearly felt Li Yan and Luo Qi's profound love and protection. Countless nights, countless times, he had awoken from a scorching fever that felt as if it were burning his heart, and through his blurred, heavy eyelids, the first things he always saw were those two busy figures, their anxious faces forcing out smiles.
"If I wasn't their biological son, how could they have done so much for me?"
"If I wasn't their biological son, how could they have treated me just like their own son?"
Li Mu Yang had seen the children of his neighbors, and he had seen the parents of his classmates. He had never noticed anything unusual. He had never felt that he was any different from anyone else.
The only two differences were that he was a little stupider and a little uglier than others.
In his mind, both his parents were alive and loved him dearly. Even when he disappointed them countless times and brought home the