This startled William Turner quite a bit. What was this thing, and why was it hidden so carefully?

Looking closely, he saw that it was a few bones, judging by the size they looked like lamb leg bones, with large chunks of red and white lamb meat still attached at the joints. Mrs. Brooks saw William Turner's puzzled look, and his old face flushed with shame.

"Young master, I'm really sorry, my wife at home is just... well, you know!" Mrs. Brooks gave a look as if to say "you understand," and advised, "Wash them well and you can still eat them. Boil them a bit longer—bone broth is good for people who are injured, helps them recover faster."

If it were Mr. Turner at home, with his scholarly air and refusal to accept charity, he would most likely have declined Mrs. Brooks's kindness. But William Turner was different. Looking at the lamb bones, he couldn't help but drool. As the saying goes, when under a low eave, one has to bow their head. Besides, he could always repay the favor later. William Turner bowed and said, "Uncle Brooks, thank you very much."

"Ay, it's just a few bones, not worth much, no need to thank me! Besides, I was worried Mr. Turner wouldn't want them." Mrs. Brooks hurriedly put down the bones, said, "I've still got work at home," and went downstairs.

William Turner picked up the bones and was washing them with clean water when he heard sharp yelling coming faintly from below.

"Useless good-for-nothing! I gave you a hundred coins and you only brought back this little bit of lamb bones? How is that enough for soup? Tell me, did Butcher Wang cheat you?"

"No, he didn't!"

"Oh, then you must have given the money to some hussy you fancy. How can I go on living like this!"

A low voice replied, "Sigh, what nonsense, everything's getting more expensive, you know that. If you don't believe me, you can go buy it yourself tomorrow."

"I will, I will! I never get the short end of the stick!"

William Turner listened for a while and couldn't help but sigh. Mrs. Brooks was a good man, but his wife was really something else—sharp-tongued and mean, unwilling to suffer even the tiniest loss...

Shaking his head, he decided to hurry up and finish washing the lamb bones. He changed the water three times, washing away all the blood. The stove was burning hot, and after placing the pot with a chipped rim on it, he added the lamb bones and clean water, turned the heat up high, and soon the water in the pot was boiling, rolling vigorously, and a rich aroma began to waft out.

William Turner was bent over tending the fire and didn't notice the door quietly open. A middle-aged man stumbled in from outside, tall and slender, wearing a light blue robe stained with mud, and his pale face seemed streaked with tears.

When he came in and saw William Turner, his face suddenly lit up with wild joy. He reached out and scooped William Turner up in his arms.

"Oh no, my first hug is gone!" William Turner screamed inwardly, but the man paid no attention and even went further, rubbing his stubbly face against William Turner's cheek, laughing triumphantly.

"Little girl, you're finally awake. Now your father can rest easy!"

Boom!

William Turner was completely thunderstruck. I'm a man, a real man! But his protests were useless. The The Turner Family had only one son per generation, and after finally having a boy, his parents and grandparents were all afraid the King of Hell would take their grandson away, so they gave him a nickname: "Girl."

They thought girls had harder lives and the King of Hell wouldn't take them. As if the King of Hell also preferred boys over girls—William Turner was speechless.

"If you keep this up, I'll be bedridden again."

When Mr. Turner heard this, he let go, looking a bit embarrassed, and suddenly noticed the soup pot.

"Girl, where did you get the meat bones?"

"Mrs. Brooks gave them to us. Also, can we please stop calling me 'Girl'?"

Mr. Turner was stunned for a moment, then suddenly realized his son's height was already up to his own shoulder—not the little jade-carved child he used to be.

He suddenly sighed, looking forlorn. "Alright, I won't, I won't. I won't call you that anymore. My son has grown up."

He turned and flopped onto the bed, not moving at all.

William Turner figured he must have been out all day and was exhausted, so he didn't say much and focused on making the soup. After about a quarter of an hour, the broth turned a tempting milky white, and the rich aroma was overwhelming.

"It's done. Let's have some soup and then sleep."

As he spoke, he wrapped a cloth around his hand, set the pot on the table, and brought over two large coarse porcelain bowls, setting everything in place. The "guy" on the bed still lay there like a corpse, not moving at all. Did he really have to call him "Dad"?

William Turner snuck a glance and was startled. He saw Mr. Turner with tears and snot streaming down his face. In both his lives, William Turner had never seen a man so heartbroken—half the pillow was soaked.

At the height of his grief, Mr. Turner's shoulders shook uncontrollably. The more silently he sobbed, the more it hurt. What on earth had happened? William Turner was reluctant, but the man before him was still his father—he couldn't just ignore him.

He quietly approached the bed and asked in a low voice, "Dad, what's wrong?"

Mr. Turner was dazed for a while, then suddenly sat up, raised his hand, and slapped himself hard twice on the face. William Turner didn't even have time to stop him.

Red handprints instantly swelled up on his face, and Mr. Turner couldn't hold back anymore, bursting into heart-wrenching sobs.

"Your father is unfilial, your father deserves to die, your father... your father sold the land where our ancestral graves are!" After saying this, Mr. Turner covered his face, not daring to look up.

William Turner's eyes widened in shock. Grave land! Not just in the Ming Dynasty—even in some places in modern times, that's incredibly important. The resting place of one's ancestors—anyone who sells it is considered an unfilial descendant!