Four years after my mom passed away, my dad said he wanted to marry the neighbor aunt.

My younger brother flew back from Shenzhen, and the first thing he said when he entered the house was: "Dad, is the house over there going to be demolished? She wants to bring in capital to join the group."
My dad said her house there is rented.
My brother was stunned and asked what she was after.
My dad said he just wanted to fry her an egg in the morning.
My brother said he would fry one for you too.
My dad said the egg you fried is cold; the egg she brings over is still steaming hot.
On the wedding day, the aunt brought an old passbook, not for demolition compensation, but her retirement savings from working at the supermarket.
She handed the passbook to my dad and said, "This is for buying eggs."
My dad locked the passbook in the drawer, next to the one my mom left behind—two side by side, one old with frayed edges, one new and unactivated.
He didn't activate it.
He said starting next month, the pension will be deposited into this old card, and you can buy whatever you want at the supermarket, no need to save anymore.
She asked about the eggs.
He said the eggs are still fried; you said yourself, the kid's eggs are cold, but the eggs I fry for you are hot.
She pulled out the old passbook a little more, pressing it against the edge of the drawer, and said, "That winter when he was laid off, the fire in the stove went out, and even his hands froze stiff."
"Since that day, she’s been hoping to one day serve hot soup to someone, but she never got the chance."
"Now she doesn’t have to wait anymore—every morning, there’s someone in the kitchen heating her soup, not anyone else, but him."
That passbook still hasn't been activated; the eggs have been fried over 800 times, and all the cold ones have turned hot.