By the end of the meal, the chicken soup in the stew pot was finished, and not a bit of food remained on the table. Han Zhiyun quietly patted his belly, feeling somewhat unsatisfied.
"Brother Ziyu, your eldest daughter is virtuous and capable, your younger daughter is naive and lovable, and your young son is smart and clever. You really are so fortunate!"
Looking at the well-behaved Xin Er and Zhenzhen snuggling up to their father, and Mo Yan, who came all the way from the kitchen to cook for their father, envy bubbled up in Han Zhiyun's heart.
He also had sons and daughters; his eldest daughter was already ten years old, but not only had she never cooked for him, she had never even poured him a cup of tea;
His younger children were also distant towards him; every time they saw him, they stayed far away, as if they were afraid of him, making it impossible for him to get close to them.