Lin Xiuzhi was reborn. Back in 1996, she was holding the hot "lay-off notice" from the state-owned textile factory in her hand. In her previous life, she took a meager severance pay and listened to her husband's sweet talk to speculate in the stock market. As a result, she lost all her money. Her husband cheated on her and her son dropped out of school. She was reduced from a "regular job" that everyone envied, to picking leaves at the vegetable market, and finally died of illness in the cold winter. In this life, when she opened her eyes again, she saw that the "iron rice bowl" was shattered on the ground, and all the neighbors in the family house were sighing, waiting to see her family's joke. The husband continued to draw the pie: "Xiuzhi, this is called labor pain! Let's invest the money in the stock market, and we will soon be able to become a household worth ten thousand yuan!" Lin Xiuzhi hid the bankbook with her backhand and threw out the divorce agreement: "My labor pains have nothing to do with you. If you want to be a household worth ten thousand yuan, you can figure it out yourself." Everyone said that Lin Xiuzhi was crazy. Without a man and a job, how could she, a middle-aged woman, survive with a child? Lin Xiuzhi just silently moved out the "Butterfly" sewing machine that was given to her as a dowry. In an era when Hong Kong style swept the streets and bell bottoms and bodybuilding pants were all the rage, she, a "technical master" in the factory for decades, could make the straightest line with her eyes closed. From secretly sewing and mending, to setting up a stall in the night market to sell his improved "Qingliang" shirts; from making a few yuan per piece of clothing, to contracting the clothing production line of a township enterprise. While her neighbors who used to laugh at her were still worrying about re-employment, and her ex-husband was locked up in the stock market and was crying, Lin Xiuzhi had already ridden her motorcycle to the "Big Brother" store and bought herself the latest model. Small Theater: The son coyly handed over a love letter: "Mom, the beauty of our class said,
