On the day of the divorce, Zhou Dayong picked up his five-year-old daughter from the kindergarten with 500 yuan in his pocket.
Xiaoman ran out and his first words were: "Dad, I'm hungry."
He rummaged through his pockets, bought two eggs and a handful of green onions, and used an old pot to fry her a bowl of egg fried rice on the roadside.
It was the shabbiest bowl of rice he had ever eaten in his life, but it was the most delicious meal his daughter had ever eaten.
From that day on, there was a rusty tricycle in the corner of Qingtong Road.
I sold one copy in three hours, was chased by the urban management, was crowded out by my peers, and was disliked by my ex-wife. "You're just going to let your daughter smell oil fumes with you?"
He never thought of giving up.
Because my daughter said it while doing her homework at the stall.
"Dad's fried rice is the best in the universe."
Later, someone offered three million to buy his brand.
He didn't sell it.
The brand was purchased by my daughter when she was five years old and is called "Xiaomanjia".
Ten years later, he stood on the podium of the "Top Ten Craftsmen in Jiangcheng".
Sitting under the stage was my eighteen-year-old daughter.
She said, "Dad, take a break. I'll fry this bowl of rice."
