Reborn, She Leads Her Daughter to Become a Tycoon

Transmigrating into a book as a top-grade cannon-fodder character who was thrown out of her home, Ye Zhixia looked at her three-year-old daughter in her arms and the bare, shabby earthen house. She was as unflappable as could be.

After all, she could hear plants talking.

The potatoes, packed tight in the soil, cried, “I'm suffocating! Hurry up and loosen me!” The drooping wheat seedlings shrieked, “Aphids are kissing me! Get them off!” And the crooked jujube tree behind the house showed off every day: “My jujubes are the sweetest in the whole village. Come pick them!”

All right, then. She'd farm.

The corn hollered, “I need fertilizer! I need water!” so she hauled water to the fields. The tomatoes complained, “Too many branches are stealing our nutrients,” so she pruned them as she passed.

Everyone in the village said she'd gone crazy. Only Lin Chixiao, the cold-faced veteran just back from the army, silently handed her a bowl of braised pork while holding her daughter. Three-year-old Guoguo pointed her little finger at him. “Uncle says the pieces you cut are all different sizes. They're not good enough.”

Ye Zhixia: “...” So which one of us is the real mother?

Later, when the supply cooperative director gaped at the fresh, vibrant vegetables from her home, when experts from the provincial capital chased after her asking, “How did you get this yield per mu?”, and when the newspaper ran the headline “Farmer Becomes a Ten-Thousand-Yuan Household,” she finally believed it.

The foxtail grass on the field ridge swayed its head every day and sang, “Don't rush, don't rush. You'll be the richest, you'll be the richest!”

And what about that quiet, taciturn man who was a wonderful cook and always seemed to be eavesdropping on her talking to herself? Lately, she kept hearing the sunflower in the corner of the courtyard gossip: “He secretly measured the doorframe again today. He's getting ready to get married, right? Right?”

Ye Zhixia silently shoveled a little dirt over the sunflower.

Some secrets are better left buried in the soil.