Writing paid slowly, saving money was a waste, and money ought to make more money... that vision, that awareness, was simply leagues beyond theirs.
"How much did you actually earn in royalties back then?"
Huang Ling took a deep breath and asked again.
All along, what she had been proudest of was not actually Zhou Cheng winning the national junior table tennis championship, but his ability to earn money from writing.
Just as she valued an iron rice bowl, a steady source of income was what her generation prized most.
She had once thought that Zhou Cheng earning over a hundred a month in royalties was already an extraordinary feat. Only now did she realize that a hundred or so was not even his limit!
"In royalties, I only earned about three thousand a year back then. I've written less these past two years, so it's only about two thousand a year."
Huang Ling pressed a hand to her forehead, utterly speechless.
Only two thousand a year!
What a frighteningly casual way to say it!
But considering he already had thirty thousand on hand, two thousand a year really did seem like very little!
Huang Ling kept taking deep breaths. Only after a long while did she barely manage to suppress the emotions churning within her.
Yet even after suppressing them, she still felt as though none of this was real.
In fact, she was not the only one. Song Ying, beside her, had long since been stunned senseless too, and even secretly pinched her lower back to check whether she was dreaming.
Out of maternal instinct, Huang Ling automatically wanted to tell Zhou Cheng to hand over the money for her to keep.
But with the words on the tip of her tongue, she forced herself to swallow them.