Half a Lifetime Serving Porridge at the Village Gate, Only for My Son to Tear Down My Stall After Joining the Tax Bureau

When Ben came charging into the porridge stand with his audit team. I was pouring hot water. “Everybody stop moving.” Ben’s voice came in from outside the tent, cold and unlike him.

The thermos in my hand tilted, and hot water splashed onto the back of my hand, burning it bright red.

Old Sam quickly pulled up his sleeve and wiped it for me, muttering, “Mick, your son’s here, in uniform. He looks so impressive.” Yeah, impressive.

Ben was wearing a dark blue tax uniform, and his peaked cap sat low over his brows. Five or six others in the same uniform followed behind him.

Some of them were carrying notebooks and cameras. He stood at the entrance of the stand, backlit, so I couldn’t see his expression clearly.

Ben’s voice wasn’t loud, but every word landed like a nail. “Dad, this stand doesn’t have a business license.

Under the Food Safety Act and the regulations on cracking down on unlicensed business operations, this is illegal business activity.

You need to stop immediately and accept the penalty.” The stand went silent in an instant. A dozen pairs of eyes kept shifting between me and Ben.

I was still holding that paintchipped thermos, and steam was still drifting out of the spout. Old Sam spoke first. “Ben, what are you talking about?

Your dad has been running this stand here for twentythree years. Every May Day, he gives people free water and noodles.

You were even here helping him boil water when you were little. How does that turn into illegal business now?” Ben didn’t look at him. He glared straight at me. “The law is the law.

Just because you’re doing a good deed doesn’t mean you can ignore it.” I set the thermos down on the table and wiped my hands on my apron. “Ben, you got into the tax bureau, and I’m proud of you.

But this stand only runs for a few days every May Day, and we don’t sell anything.

We just let people have a free sip of water and a bowl of noodles…” Ben cut me off. “Free doesn’t matter. As long as you’re providing food, it falls under food safety regulation.

Do you have a health certificate? Do you have receipts for your ingredients? Has your boiling equipment been safety tested?” I froze. “None of that should be necessary, right?

It’s just boiling water and instant noodles. The cup noodles come from the supermarket.

Anybody can buy them.” A young man with glasses standing behind Ben opened a notebook. “You say they’re from the supermarket. Where are the receipts? Where are the purchase records?

What if you bought expired products or counterfeit goods? Who’s responsible if there’s a food safety issue?” I opened my mouth, but no words came out.

Yeah, who would be responsible? I had never even thought about that before. The little supermarket where I bought the noodles belonged to Old Wang at the entrance to the village.

It had been open for over ten years. Every time, I just went there and carried back a few boxes. He gave me wholesale prices. I had never asked for an invoice.

And I had never once thought about keeping any receipts. The young man with glasses walked over to the stove and picked up an enamel cup to look at it. “Also, this hot water.

Your boiling container doesn’t meet foodcontact material safety standards.

Longterm use could cause harmful substances to leach out.” My voice grew quieter and quieter. “This cup has been used for over twenty years, and nothing’s ever happened.” Ben finally moved.

He walked to the middle of the stand and looked around. “Nothing happening doesn’t mean there’s no problem. Dad, stop for today.

Tomorrow go to town and get a business license and a health certificate, keep all your ingredient purchase receipts, and every year before May Day apply for a temporary stall permit.

It’s not hard.” I looked into his eyes, trying to find something familiar there. But it was so unfamiliar.

Old Sam spoke again. “Ben, your dad has done good deeds his whole life, and this is how you treat him?” The corner of Ben’s mouth moved as if he wanted to say something, but in the end he said nothing.

I didn’t know when, but a crowd had gathered outside the stand. People from the village and cars passing by all stopped to watch the excitement.

Some people were holding up their phones to record, and others were whispering to each other. “Isn’t that Old Mick’s son?

The one who got hired by the government?” “Yeah, he got into the tax bureau, and now he’s here to audit his own dad.” “Tsk tsk tsk, what an ungrateful brat.

All that education and he still turned out useless.” “You can’t say it like that. He’s just doing things by the book. They’re cracking down hard now. Who told Mr.

Harris not to get a license?” “What the hell kind of license does he need? It’s just a tent for a few days on May Day giving people hot water.

You want him to go get paperwork for that?” The murmurs buzzed around the porridge stand like mosquitoes. Ben’s face was very tight.

He still had that same expression, neck stiff, teeth clenched, glaring at me like I was his greatest enemy. I said, “Fine, shut it down for today.

I’ll go get the license tomorrow.” I bent down to unplug the stove. It was an old electric heater, and I had been using it for over ten years.

Every time I plugged it in, I could smell a burnt odor, but it had never broken, so I kept using it. Ben suddenly said, “Wait.

The power cord on this electric stove doesn’t meet safety standards. It’s a fire hazard.

According to the regulations, it needs to be confiscated.” I looked up at him. “Confiscated?” “Yes. Confiscated. And these enamel cups and thermoses need to be inspected too.

Anything that doesn’t meet the standard has to be dealt with.” The stand fell completely silent. Even the people outside watching the drama stopped talking.

Everyone was looking at Ben, watching him give orders without any expression as his people started checking the things in the stand.

The young man with glasses walked over to the stove, unplugged it, and lifted the whole electric heater up.

Another woman crouched down and rummaged through the cup noodles I had stacked in cardboard boxes, taking them out one by one to check the production dates, then writing something down in her notebook.

Ben finally spoke again, his voice lower now. “Dad, I’m not targeting you. I’m dealing with the issue, not the person.

Everyone in the village knows you’re a good man, but rules are rules.

Without rules, nothing works.” I looked at his uniform and watched the badge on his chest reflecting the sunlight. I said, “When you were little, you helped out in this tent too.

Those longhaul truckers all praised you and said that when you grew up, you’d definitely be a warmhearted guy.” Ben opened his mouth but didn’t speak.

I asked him, “Ben, can you only choose between being warmhearted and being a government worker?” He didn’t answer. At that moment, there was a sudden stir outside the stand.

Someone shouted, “Mr. Lewis passed out! Mr. Lewis is having a heart attack!” I whipped around and saw Mr.

Lewis slumped under the poplar tree outside the stand, his face turning purple, one hand clutching his chest, his mouth opening and closing as he struggled to breathe.

His wife was crouched beside him, crying in panic, screaming through her tears, “Lewis, Lewis, what’s wrong with you? Somebody help!

Help!” I immediately pulled a small bottle from my apron pocket.

It was quickacting heart pills. “I have medicine!” I had always kept it on me, because a lot of the people coming to the stand were elderly, and I was afraid something would happen.

I grabbed the bottle and ran over. Just as I was crouching down to open the cap, Ben grabbed my wrist with one hand. “Dad, you don’t have a medical license.

You can’t give him medicine.” I couldn’t believe my ears. “What? Ben, this is heart medicine. I just need to give him two pills. What does that have to do with a medical license?

This is a lifeordeath emergency. Do you understand that?” “Using medicine counts as medical treatment.

If someone without a medical license uses medicine on their own and something goes wrong, they have to bear legal responsibility.” Ben was holding my wrist.

His grip wasn’t very hard, but it was firm. “Think about it. If Mr.

Lewis takes your medicine and something happens, who’s responsible?” I shouted, “I’ll be responsible if something happens!” In twentythree years, I had never raised my voice at anyone in this porridge stand, and today I was shouting at my own son.

Ben said, “You can’t bear that responsibility.” Mr. Lewis’s breathing was getting more and more rapid.

His lips had already turned bluishpurple, and his hand was clawing blindly at his chest. Mrs.

Lewis was kneeling on the ground, tears streaming down her face. “Ben, let your dad give my old man the medicine. If something happens, we won’t blame him.

I’ll write a guarantee, I’ll press my thumbprint, I’m begging you. Lewis can’t hold on much longer…” Ben didn’t move. He didn’t loosen his grip on my wrist at all.

Ben said to the people behind him, “Call 911.

Wait for the ambulance to get here.” I panicked and shook off his hand. “By the time the ambulance gets here, it’ll be too late!” Ben immediately grabbed my wrist again, this time even tighter.

His voice started to shake, but he still didn’t let go. “Dad, you can’t move. If you use medicine now, that’s practicing medicine without a license.

If it’s serious enough, you could face criminal liability. I finally got into the tax bureau, I can’t…” He didn’t finish the rest, but I understood.

He couldn’t have a father who went to prison. I looked at that face of his, exactly like his mother’s, and suddenly it felt utterly unfamiliar.

At that moment, someone rushed over and shoved Ben aside. It was Dr. Miller from the village clinic.

He had ridden over from the east end of the village on an ebike, and he hadn’t even had time to fasten his white coat. “Everybody move!” Dr. Miller crouched down, pried open Mr.

Lewis’s mouth to look inside, then checked his pulse. His face changed immediately. “Where’s the heart medicine? Bring me the heart medicine now!” I handed him the bottle. Dr.

Miller poured out two pills and tucked them under Mr. Lewis’s tongue, then told someone to lay Mr. Lewis flat, loosen his collar, and started chest compressions.

The whole thing took less than a minute. Ben stood to the side. Dr. Miller shoved him and he staggered two steps, even getting one button on his uniform crooked.

He didn’t move again after that. He just stood there and watched Dr. Miller save Mr. Lewis. Everyone in the stand crowded over. Some helped hold up Mr. Lewis’s head.

Some used umbrellas to shade him from the sun. Some handed Dr. Miller water to wash his hands. Nobody looked at Ben. Nobody spoke to him. After about five minutes, Mr.

Lewis’s breathing steadied a little, and the color slowly returned to his lips. Dr. Miller wiped the sweat off his forehead and said to Mrs. Lewis, “He’s okay now. He’s stabilized.

You still need to take him to the hospital for a checkup later.” Mrs. Lewis collapsed onto the ground, tears pouring down her face as she grabbed Dr.

Miller’s hand and thanked him over and over. Dr.

Miller waved it off, stood up, and looked at Ben. “Ben, why did you stop your dad from giving him the medicine just now?” Ben couldn’t say anything. Dr.

Miller stepped toward him, one step at a time. “Do you know the golden rescue window for a heart attack is only four minutes?

During those four minutes that you kept your dad from helping, Mr. Lewis’s life was hanging by a thread. You stood there in a government uniform and just watched?” “Dr.

Miller, I was following the law…” Dr. Miller cut him off. “Does the law tell you to stand by and watch someone die? Does the law tell you to be an ungrateful bastard?

You’ve studied for years, and you’ve forgotten even the most basic rule of being human?” Ben’s face turned bright red.

I looked at him, and my heart hurt like someone had grabbed it in their fist. Someone outside the stand yelled loudly, “Got that on video, right?

Post it online and let the whole country see this ungrateful brat.” Someone else answered, “Already posted it!” Ben’s body trembled.

After quite a while, Mr. Lewis was helped to his feet and sat down on a stool. His face was still very pale, but he could speak now. He looked at Ben, then at me, and sighed.

His voice was weak, but very clear. “Ben, your dad has been running this porridge stand for twentythree years. When you were three, your mom left.

Your dad raised you alone, had to farm the land and take care of you, and this stand nearly couldn’t keep going.

But that year on May Day, a longhaul trucker drank a bowl of hot water at your dad’s stand and, after finishing the instant noodles, insisted on kneeling to your dad.

He said he had been driving from Arizona to Ohio and hadn’t had a single sip of hot water for three days. It was your dad’s bowl of water that saved his life.” Mr.

Lewis coughed twice and kept going. “After hearing that, your dad kept the porridge stand going. Twentythree years, every May Day, rain or shine.

He said he didn’t have much ability in this life, and this was the little thing he could do to help people. If he could keep doing it, he would.” The stand was dead silent.

Ben stood at the entrance to the tent, sunlight falling on him and stretching his shadow very long.

His uniform was crisp, his shoes shone brightly, and the badge on his chest reflected the sun. He just stood there, not moving at all.

After who knows how long, he raised his head and looked at me. “Dad, I…” He couldn’t finish. Because the sound of a truck came from far away. I didn’t look at him.

I crouched down and picked up the scattered pairs of chopsticks on the ground, wiping them off with a rag.

I said, “Ben, the day you got into the tax bureau, I was so happy I couldn’t sleep all night.

I thought my son had made something of himself, that he was handling something as important as taxes, and that he’d definitely be able to do some real things for the people in the future.

I never thought the first real thing you’d do was smash your old man’s rice bowl.” Ben lowered his head and said nothing.

I stood up, tucked the chopsticks into my apron pocket, and said, “You can only choose one between being warmhearted and being a government worker.

You chose your position, and I don’t blame you. But you need to remember this: the reason you can stand here as an official today isn’t because you’re so capable.

It’s because this broken porridge stand, with its bowl of porridge and packets of instant noodles, carried you all the way through school.

You don’t have to acknowledge the stand, but you do have to acknowledge the truth.” I don’t know who in the crowd started crying.

Ben stood there too, his eyes red, but in the end he still didn’t say a word. The iron pot and the stove were loaded onto the truck and taken away.

I had only taken a dozen steps when a voice came from behind me. “Dad.” I didn’t turn around. Not because I didn’t want to, but because I couldn’t.

I was afraid that if I turned around, my tears would fall. Ben shouted again, “Dad.” This time his voice was louder. “Dad, I really had no choice.

Don’t blame me.” I didn’t dare stop walking. The wind blew past, and my heart went cold too.

That night, Mr. Lewis’s son, Kyle Lewis, came to my door carrying a case of milk.

His eyes were red. “Uncle Mick, my dad told me to come and tell you that Ben is an ungrateful bastard. Don’t be upset.

If you want to set up the stand again, the people in our village will chip in and help you build it.” I said there was no need, but he wouldn’t leave and insisted on putting the milk down.

The milk carton was heavy, and when I took it, I saw an envelope tucked underneath it.

Inside the envelope was a stack of cash, mixed bills and all, looking like the whole village had pooled it together.

There was a note pressed on top of the money, written in crooked handwriting, and I didn’t know who wrote it: “Uncle Mick, we paid for the porridge stand.

Don’t think it’s too little.” I didn’t think it was too little. I sat there facing that stack of cash for the whole night.

Early the next morning, I was crouched at the door smoking when I suddenly heard a commotion at the village entrance. I walked out and froze. The porridge stand was there.

The stove, the iron pot, and the enamel bowls were all back, neatly arranged where they had been before.

There was also a new folding table beside it, with a pack of tea and a bag of sugar on top. A person was standing beside the truck. It wasn’t Ben.

It was the young audit officer from yesterday. He ran over, looking a little embarrassed. “Uncle Mick, about what happened yesterday… we got it wrong.

Your stand shouldn’t just avoid a penalty, it should be praised.

I went back and checked the policy, and in a case like yours, the town government should actually provide a subsidy.” He pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket.

It was a subsidy application form. “I filled it out for you. You just need to sign it.” I took the form, and my hands were shaking a little. Not from excitement.

It was just that I thought things in this world were kind of funny sometimes. My own son brought people to smash the stand, but an outsider secretly put it back for me.

I hesitated for a moment. “Where’s Ben?” The auditor’s expression turned a little awkward. He hesitated for a long time before lowering his voice. “Mr. Ben was called in for a talk.

After the bureau found out about this, the leaders were very angry. They said he didn’t understand policy, didn’t follow principles, and acted recklessly.

He’s writing a selfcriticism right now, and he might have to…” He didn’t finish, but I understood what he meant. I didn’t say anything and just signed my name.

After the auditor left, I sat in the porridge stand for a while.

The stove was still the same stove, and the pot was still the same pot, but somehow it felt like something was missing. Later I figured it out.

What was missing was that warm feeling. The porridge hadn’t been cooked yet, and the pot was cold.

Just as I was spacing out, I heard someone shout behind me, “Uncle Mick, we’ve got customers!” I turned around and saw two big trucks parked at the village entrance.

It was a pair of old truckers who used to pass through this route all the time.

They must have heard that the porridge stand had almost been torn down, and they took a detour just to come here. “Uncle Mick, we heard your stand was getting torn down?

That won’t do. The few of us have been driving this route for twenty years, and we’re counting on your hot porridge!” I quickly stood up and hurried to start the fire. The fire lit.

The water boiled. I put the rice in the pot. The smell of porridge slowly started to drift out. Through the steam, I vaguely saw what Ben looked like when he was little.

A tiny kid, standing on tiptoe to look into the pot, shouting, “Dad, is the porridge ready yet? I’m hungry.” Back then, he was still small.

He didn’t know yet that there was a word in this world called principle, and that it could split a person clean in two.

In the rising steam, I ladled porridge into the drivers’ bowls. They took the bowls and, after one sip of the hot porridge, all had looks of relief on their faces.

One driver suddenly said, “Uncle Mick, we’ve all heard about your son. Don’t be sad. People are made of flesh and blood. He’s still young.

He’ll understand someday.” I didn’t answer and just added another ladle of water to the pot. Then several more vehicles arrived, and a group of people got out.