Ye Hui wiped her sweat and explained to her son: “Father King means father. He is your father. Didn’t we talk about this in Pingzhou? We were going to bring you to the capital to meet your father. Quickly go and greet your father, oh no, you should say Father King.”
Maintaining old habits would make them seem like country bumpkins to the capital’s upper-class society, who already had a sense of superiority.
Heng Ting, raised well by his mother, had always been curious about his unseen father.
He took small steps to Huangfu Zeduan, tugging at his sleeve: “Father King, please don’t be angry. It’s my fault. I apologize.”
Heng Ting, like a little adult, clasped his hands and bowed formally.
“Good son,” Huangfu Zeduan’s anger turned to joy, picking up his son and kissing him hard.
For a man in his thirties, having a son was a great joy, his eyebrows lifting, unable to hide his happiness.
“My beloved wife, look at our son, so clever. What do you think about me finding Wang Han Lin, a Hanlin Academy top scholar, to be our son’s tutor?”
“Isn’t it too early? Heng Ting is only four years old. He should be playing. Turning him into a bookworm would be so boring. I don’t mind him studying and learning skills, but let’s wait until he’s older.”
In ancient times, they counted age by the lunar year, so Heng Ting was actually only three. The thought of confining such a young child to study, sitting straight, listening to old scholars drone on, was unbearable for a mother.
Huangfu Zeduan didn’t understand, frowning: “Isn’t this how everyone grows up? Don’t spoil him too much. To become talented, he must study hard. How else can he become an excellent heir and eventually replace me?”
Ye Hui broke into a cold sweat. Times were different, and so were thought patterns. For now, she wouldn’t argue about finding a teacher for Heng Ting.
