As a Scummy Omega, I Ran Away with the Baby - Chapter 59.1

Two years had passed in the blink of an eye.

Two years were enough to change a great many things.

Enough for a little patient who once lay in bed, whimpering and clinging helplessly to her mother’s neck, to grow into a sharp-witted child on the cusp of entering elementary school. Her hair had grown long, meticulously braided into two perfect plaits by Aunt Han, swaying behind her as she walked. One of her baby teeth had fallen out, leaving a charming gap whenever she smiled—a gap that no one was allowed to tease her about. She had even learned to wield idioms, punctuating arguments she couldn’t win with adults by putting her hands on her hips and solemnly accusing them of “twisting words to suit one’s own purpose.”

Two years were also enough for a farewell that once tore hearts apart to settle into a gentle, almost ordinary rhythm of daily life.

By now, Gu Yining had become the most familiar “regular” in the Bai family villa. Though the term felt inadequate—she had long surpassed the role of a guest and become an indispensable part of the household itself.

Gu Yining had the villa’s access codes and could return late at night from weeks-long shoots without disturbing anyone. The motion-sensor light in the foyer would welcome her, and a pair of soft, cozy slippers—always thoughtfully placed by Aunt Han in the most convenient spot—awaited her. Whenever she dined there, Aunt Han would message her in advance to ask what she wanted to eat, and prepare the meal with care, leaving it warm and ready in the kitchen.

On weekends without work commitments, Gu Yining acted like any other mother, carrying bags of toys and snacks for Bai Xia, spending the entire afternoon fully devoted to her daughter.

Sometimes they would lie on the massive wool carpet in the living room, building LEGO castles together, losing themselves for hours in the sunny afternoon light streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows, stretching their long shadows across the room.

Other times, they would play chase in the courtyard. Gu Yining, breathless from running after the tireless little whirlwind, would eventually raise her hands in playful surrender, letting Bai Xia cling to her like a little koala.

Even her interactions with Bai Qingqiu had become unusually “natural.”

At least, that was how it appeared to everyone else.

The tension, the awkward pauses that once hung between them, seemed to have quietly melted away over the course of two years.

They could sit calmly at opposite ends of the overly long dining table, discussing Bai Xia’s latest adventures at kindergarten.

“She’s been obsessed with drawing lately—she wants to put everything she sees on paper,” Gu Yining said softly, a gentle smile tugging at her lips. “The teacher mentioned the other day that she has a real talent and a vivid imagination, she just tends to get paint everywhere.”

“Hm,” Bai Qingqiu replied, setting down her knife and fork and treating the matter with the seriousness of a business project. “I’ll have my assistant contact some private art studios and send you the list. You can pick one together and take her for a trial class. If she wants to enroll, or needs any materials, contact me or my assistant directly.”

When schedules allowed, they even attended Bai Xia’s parent-teacher meetings together.

In those moments, Gu Yining and Bai Qingqiu became the most noticeable pair of parents in the kindergarten.

One, dressed in a beige cashmere coat, her hair down, makeup delicate, patient and gentle—“Aunt Gu”—smiled as she patiently discussed every detail of Bai Xia’s day with the teachers: how she slept at naptime, how she got along with friends.

The other, in a sharply tailored dark suit, radiating authority, almost never speaking—“Mommy Bai”—would only chime in when major decisions needed to be made.

One managed the home, the other the outside world; together, they were seamless.

Sometimes, even late at night, they would exchange short voice messages over trivial matters, like Bai Xia kicking off her blanket.

“She kicked her blanket off again tonight. Even with the heater on, it’s still a little chilly. I went in and tucked her in. Did you bring warm clothes on your trip? How’s the weather over there? The forecast says it’s getting colder, remember to dress warmly.”

Gu Yining’s messages rambled, as they often did now that she was older; she had once been charmingly concise, but now she was more talkative—and didn’t even notice.

After a while—ten minutes, maybe half an hour—Bai Qingqiu would respond succinctly, her voice carrying the quiet fatigue of someone finishing work:

“Noted. You too.”

Everything seemed harmonious, peaceful, as if time itself had slowed.

To any observer, they appeared like amicable ex-partners maintaining a cooperative relationship for their child—a pair of strangers intimately familiar with one another, the perfect parents for their daughter.

No one spoke of the searing pain of seven years ago, nor of the farewell on that sunny afternoon two years back.

The wound, once raw and bloody, had been carefully wrapped in layers of gentle, everyday life by mutual, unspoken understanding. They pretended it never existed, believing that as long as they didn’t touch it, it wouldn’t hurt and wouldn’t affect anything.

To the outside world, they appeared perfectly normal.

But only they knew that scar had never truly healed, had never vanished.

It no longer bled, but it throbbed subtly under the skin, along the bones, whenever the weather turned damp and gray, or when the night fell silent. A reminder that some things, once broken, can never be fully restored, leaving a permanent mark.

They were like two hedgehogs separated by a thick, transparent pane of glass. They could see each other’s every move, feel each other’s presence, even occasionally sense the familiar, memory-laden scent of the other.

Yet neither dared move closer.

Neither dared reach out to break the invisible barrier.

They feared that this fragile, hard-won equilibrium could be shattered, reopening the barely healed wound, leaving both of them bleeding again.

So, they maintained this delicate balance, day after day.

Until the Spring Festival arrived, cracking a tiny, delicate fissure in that seemingly unbreakable glass.

The Spring Festival, the one time of year filled with the most hope and warmth.

The deafening crackle of firecrackers echoed incessantly, as if trying to sweep away a year’s worth of dust and discontent. Above, the night sky was ablaze with fireworks, each one erupting in fleeting grandeur against the black canvas.

Gu Yining felt the festive atmosphere transport her back to the carefree joy of childhood.

“Aunt!”

A small, bright voice pulled her from her momentary reverie. Bai Xia, now much taller, looked up at the sky with sparkling eyes, mesmerized by the fireworks blooming above.

“Pretty, isn’t it?” Gu Yining held her close, feeling the weight of the child in her arms, and her heart swelled with emotion. “When Aunt was little, she loved watching fireworks too. But there were always so many people, I couldn’t see them. So, my mom would lift me up into her arms—just like this—so I could see the most beautiful, most amazing fireworks.”

Her voice was full of nostalgia and longing as she spoke.

Her own mother had been gone for a long, long time. Later, she had met Bai Qingqiu, and for a while, she had thought that in this lonely world, she might finally have someone to rely on. She loved her, and she was loved in return. And they would live happily ever after—how naive and pure that wish had been.

Then they parted ways. Yet, she had been fortunate to have Bai Xia—the only person in the world with whom she shared blood, her own flesh and blood.

Thinking of this, Gu Yining lowered her head, pressing her cheek against the warm skin of the child in her arms. The heat that radiated between them chased away the shadows in her heart.

Bai Xia listened, half-understanding, to her words. She was still so small that she couldn’t truly feel, let alone empathize with, Gu Yining’s deep, hidden loneliness. Yet she instinctively sensed that the person holding her wasn’t quite as

cheerful as before.

So, she did what Gu Yining and Aunt Han often did to cheer her up: she lifted her tiny chubby hand and tapped gently, repeatedly, on Gu Yining’s back.

“Aunt, don’t be sad,” Bai Xia said, tilting her little face upward and grinning through the gap in her teeth. Her soft, tender voice carried the solemnity of someone earnestly trying to comfort a child.

Gu Yining couldn’t help but laugh. Truly, her daughter’s clumsy, heartfelt attempt at consolation completely tickled her. She didn’t want to discourage the child, so she leaned down, making it easier for those little hands to pat her hair.

She brushed her nose against her daughter’s tiny nose.

“All right, I’m not sad anymore.”

“Mm-hmm.” Bai Xia beamed, pleased with the effect of her comforting words. Straightening her small chest with a sense of pride, she mimicked an adult’s seriousness and tapped Gu Yining’s shoulder: “Don’t be sad, be happy, okay?”

“All right,” Gu Yining replied. She turned her head toward the night sky. The fireworks were nearing their end, only a few scattered sparks remaining. “Do you still want to watch, Xia? If not, Aunt will take you home for New Year’s Eve dinner, okay?” She shifted the child slightly in her arms, holding her more securely.

Bai Xia was almost old enough for elementary school now, and holding her had started to feel heavier than before.

“What’s New Year’s Eve dinner?” Bai Xia asked curiously. She didn’t yet have a clear idea of what that meant.

“It’s a meal,” Gu Yining said, trying to make her voice sound full of warmth and longing, a small smile tugging at her lips, “where the whole family eats together—the best meal in the world—and enjoys being with each other.”

But beneath the practiced cheer, bitterness lingered. What family? It would just be her taking Bai Xia back to her old apartment, fumbling over recipes on her phone, trying to cook a few auspicious dishes, a simple dinner for the two of them.

As for staying up to welcome the New Year, red envelopes, greetings, all the liveliness and ritual of “home” had long since vanished.

“Yay!” Bai Xia nodded. A child’s mind is simple; she had already focused entirely on the part about the “best meal in the world.” “Is it really that good?”

Since Bai Xia had agreed, Gu Yining carried her slowly toward home. The night wind was cool against her face, calming her slightly, and she felt playful enough to tease her daughter a little.

“Mm, it’s really, really good,” she said in a mock mysterious voice, lowering her tone, “even better than just ‘good!’”

Bai Xia, already learning language at school, pouted in indignation at her aunt’s teasing.

“That doesn’t count! How good is it really if Aunt cheats?”

Seeing this, Gu Yining stopped teasing, laughing quietly as she patted her daughter’s arm to reassure her. Then she thought seriously about what dishes she could make that would fit the festive mood.

Perhaps seafood? Fresh, simply steamed with a touch of soy sauce—easy enough.

“Do you like shrimp, Xia? Or maybe crab?”

Bai Xia’s eyes lit up, and she nodded enthusiastically.

Gu Yining breathed a small sigh of relief. That would be simple enough—pick up a little from the supermarket, steam it, maybe buy a pre-made Eight Treasure Rice. That could pass as a proper New Year’s Eve dinner for two.

As Gu Yining planned the meal, the little one suddenly asked a question that caught her completely off guard—something she had never considered before.

“Aunt, what about Mommy? Is she having New Year’s Eve dinner too? Did she ever watch fireworks when she was little?”

Gu Yining froze mid-step.

For a moment, the world seemed to fall silent.

Bai Qingqiu—where was she now, on this most symbolic holiday of reunion? Gu Yining felt a tightening in her throat and a heavy ache in her chest.

“Did Mommy tell you how she’s spending tonight?” Gu Yining asked with effort.

Bai Xia shook her head, answering naively.

“Nope. How is she spending it? Will she eat something really, really good too?”

Children’s innocent questions often hurt the most. The words were like invisible knives, dull but piercing, and Gu Yining felt that familiar ache of loss. She suppressed the wave of bitterness and loneliness that surged within her. Bai Qingqiu—probably still at work. She had never heard her speak of her own family.

Maybe Gu Yining had never been important enough to be mentioned, or maybe Bai Qingqiu simply didn’t want to talk about it.

Gu Yining steadied herself, deciding to tell a little white lie to protect her daughter’s dreams of home and family. She wanted to preserve the warmth she had just planted in Bai Xia’s heart, and avoid any negative impression of Bai

Qingqiu.

“Maybe Mommy is having New Year’s Eve dinner with her family too,” she said brightly.

But Bai Xia immediately furrowed her brow, correcting her with the seriousness of a little adult:

“No, Aunt! Mommy told me that her mom became a star in the sky when she was little, and went to the other side of the world.” She paused, then, in a small but mature voice, added, “I know—becoming a star means dying. You adults always use that to trick kids. Mommy didn’t want me to be sad, that’s why she said it.”

The words were like a knife, plunging into Gu Yining’s heart unprotected, twisting and cutting, the pain spreading through her whole body.

Her eyes welled with tears, and she struggled to hold them back.

She had never imagined that tonight—this night meant for family reunions— Bai Qingqiu would be entirely alone.

Gu Yining dared not think further. She blinked rapidly, forcing back the tears, and quickly changed the topic to hide the emotions threatening to overwhelm her.

“Xia, do you really understand what it means to die?”

Bai Xia nodded solemnly, her little mind trying to explain the heavy concept.

“I do. That day, I noticed Grandma Wang’s cat was gone. Grandma Han told me the cat had died. That means it’s asleep forever and will never wake up again. That means, we won’t ever see it again.”

Never see it again.

Those four words unlocked a long-sealed gate in Gu Yining’s heart, the pain of losing her own mother—once dulled by time—flowing together with her deep, sudden concern for Bai Qingqiu. The emotions merged into an unstoppable torrent.

So, Bai Qingqiu was still lonely, too.

Bai Qingqiu had a past far heavier than Gu Yining had imagined.

She could no longer fool herself into thinking that seeing Bai Qingqiu so isolated in the world left her unaffected.

The tears finally escaped, sliding down her cheeks.

“Yes,” she said, her voice trembling despite her effort, yet resolute, “death is like that. Every one of us will eventually die, turn into stars, and we will never see each other again. So, Xia, every day we have in this world, we must try not to leave regrets behind.”

Bai Xia was startled to see her suddenly crying, and, sensing her sadness, began to feel upset too. She stretched out her tiny hands, clumsily wiping away the tears from Gu Yining’s face, her voice trembling with a childlike sob.