She snorted, "What's there to plan? It's just mushrooms. My fans love it when I'm clueless—it gets me traffic. You're just my lackey tomorrow, fetching props. Stay out of the way."
I smiled and replied, "Of course. I’ll leave it all to you."
Using my “pregnancy” as an excuse, I tossed my dirty clothes to my husband, who reluctantly braved the cold night to hand-wash his sister’s things. He returned frozen and shivering.
Growing up in the mountains with my grandparents, I learned to recognize mushrooms well, even if I wasn’t an expert. By high school, I had dropped out and started working in the city, slowly building my way up to becoming a factory owner. Though I couldn't identify every mushroom, I knew enough to distinguish between the more dangerous ones and those that were safe to eat.
Yet, my husband had never been interested in stories from my childhood in the village. His most common remark was, "Stop talking about the village. It's embarrassing if people hear."
He always said he didn’t mind that I was from the countryside, but he feared what others might think.