The year my dad went in, my mom used all 90k yuan at home to buy Maotai stocks.

The transaction slip was locked in a metal box, and she told me: This is your dad’s trump card.
Sixth year, I couldn’t pay my tuition.
My mom secretly checked the account—her screen suddenly popped up, and she almost fell to the ground.
The stocks had already been sold off in a mistaken operation by her, most of them gone, and what remained wasn’t enough for me to finish high school.
She said nothing, bought the cheapest crucian carp at the market, and cooked it for me that night.
For the next ten years, she never mentioned those two words again.
The day my dad came out, the first thing he did was take her to the securities office.
The clerk said: Sir, there’s less than 300,000 yuan left in the account.
My dad turned to look at my mom.
My mom clenched her bag strap and took a step back.
He asked nothing.
After leaving, he took her to a jewelry store, chose the heaviest gold bracelet, and put it on her at the counter.
My mom said, Are you crazy?
He examined her for a long time and said: You’ve lost weight.
That night I woke up and heard them talking inside the house.
My mom said: I used that money.
There was a long silence.
My dad said: I know.
In the sixth year, you checked, I understood the transaction record at a glance.
My mom’s voice trembled: Then why didn’t you say anything?
My dad chuckled: Afraid you wouldn’t dare wear this bracelet.
The room fell silent.
I waited a little longer, thinking they had finished talking, and was about to leave.
Then I heard my dad add another sentence:
“You sold at the lowest point. But that year, we didn’t starve, and it turned the tide for me.”