[Sick, tolerant real daughter × paranoid, arrogant and fake young master + be] Tangli's name was added after Jiang Huai was born, and her identity was "a child of a distant relative" - but no one told her that she was the real daughter who deserved to be held in the palm of her hand in the car accident. When Jiang Huai was 12 years old, she was forced to work as a servant in the Jiang family just because she said "I'm afraid someone will take away my parents' love" when she was 12 years old.
He asked her to wash the bed sheets at three in the morning, saying "if they get dirty, you will be punished." The cold water made her fingertips stiff, and her lower abdomen hurt so much that she squatted in the laundry room and cried, but he tied flowers and peeled oranges in the living room; he made her go out in the rain to buy pastries from Chengnan, and she fell in a puddle and got up and clutched the carton. He only glanced at it and threw it into the trash can: "It's cold, it looks annoying." On his eighteenth birthday, she stewed the bird's nest for four hours according to the housekeeper's instructions. He poured it on her back as soon as she brought it in. The hot sugar water dripped down her collar. He squeezed the hand tied with flowers and smiled: "I told you before that I don't eat sweets. This servant is stupid."
Her medical records were folded at the bottom of the diary, and her rare blood disease had to be suppressed by secretly taking medicine. Even at night when she coughed and trembled, she had to cover her mouth to avoid disturbing him; and the corners of the diary were filled with loquat paste stuffed by Jiang Mu, a hot water bottle wrapped in flannel, and stir-fried vegetables without onions and ginger—the only warmth she dared to carry in her arms during the ten years she had been in the Jiang family.
She saw him holding umbrellas for others, tying scarves for others, crushing all his tenderness and feeding it to others, except for her, he only scolded her as "vile" and "a follower".
But she didn't know that the jar of loquat ointment would be empty, the hot water bottle would be cold, and even the pain she hid in her diary would have to wait for a long, long time before it would turn into the mass of his palms.
