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As Bai Shikun stepped out of the Holy Mother Chapel, he saw not far away, Old Wang the janitor yelling at a young man, “Get lost! This place isn’t open to the public!”
“I just want to have a look from the outside. I’m not trying to go in.” The young man was tall and strong, his tone calm but resolute.
“What’s going on?” Bai walked over and asked.
Seeing Bai Shikun, Old Wang’s attitude instantly changed. He explained respectfully, “Mr. Bai, this... this gentleman—”
Before Old Wang could finish, the young man gave Bai Shikun a courteous nod. “Mr. Bai, I haven’t been back to this city in many years. Since I’m here, I wanted to visit my mother’s alma mater. Even though this is a new campus, if possible, I’d like to see the Holy Mother whom my mother revered all her life, to see what she really looks like.”
The young man was polite, neither arrogant nor servile. As Bai looked at him, he already knew: this was Wang Rong’s son. The young man’s heroic features were identical to those of Wang Rong’s ex-husband, Fang Ming, in his youth.
Bai had met Fang Ming once years ago at a business event and had a good impression of him.
“Hey, I told you, no entry to the chapel—” Old Wang started again, but Bai interrupted, “It’s fine, I’ll take him in. You go tend to other matters.”
Bai dismissed Old Wang and led Fang Zheng back to the chapel. When the doors opened, Fang Zheng saw a spacious square hall, the floor tiled in black and white like a chessboard, and the Holy Mother enshrined in the center under a Romanesque pavilion, surrounded by a striking sea of red roses.
The ceiling was as high as three or four stories. The walls were paneled in redwood from floor to midway up, with windows only near the ceiling and a skylight in the center, so that, on a fine day, sunlight would stream through and shine directly on the Holy Mother’s pavilion.
She certainly knew how to create a sense of sanctity, Fang Zheng thought.
Yet, even during the day, the lighting was insufficient. About a dozen spotlights shone on the statue, but the chapel still felt dim. The space was not just empty—it was almost oppressively dark.
Fang Zheng noticed the wooden bench in front of the Holy Mother.
Was this where Mother used to sit and pray...?
Sensing his question, Bai smiled and explained, “That’s a new addition.” He pointed to the wall behind the statue. “And that painting too.”
Following Bai’s gesture, Fang Zheng circled to the back of the pavilion and stopped, eyes narrowing. It was a mural—a huge mural!
The mural dominated the entire wall, its tones so muted it had been almost invisible on entering.
The image was simple: a winged youth flying toward the sun, with raging waters below.
“The story of Icarus? How interesting.” Fang Zheng smiled wryly.
Icarus’ wings were made of wax and feathers; fly too high, the sun would melt the wax, too low, and the sea would wet the feathers. Ignoring his father’s warnings, Icarus tried to soar to the sun—only to fall to his death in the Aegean when the wax melted.
From this painting alone, Fang Zheng could infer that the relationship between this Mr. Bai and his mother had not been close. He could also guess at this old man’s attitude toward his second wife.
“Tomorrow is your mother’s funeral and memorial. I can arrange for you to—” Bai began.
Wang Rong had wide connections, but the funeral committee found themselves unable to reach any relatives—mother, son, or even ex-husband. She had no other family.
“Thank you, Mr. Bai, but today is my last day in this city. I’ll be returning to San Francisco tomorrow.” Fang Zheng replied politely. “Whether or not I attend doesn’t matter much to her.”
Bai was taken aback, then smiled, his manner as warm as toward a nephew. “Very well... How is your father doing?”
“He’s well. My father and I live together in San Francisco now. He’s quite settled in.” Fang Zheng smiled too.
“That’s good...” Bai mused for a moment, then asked, “I haven’t asked—what’s your name?” This young man, dignified, intelligent, thoughtful, honest—Bai rarely took such a liking to a stranger and wanted to know the son of Fang Ming’s name.
“My name is Fang Zheng.” Direct and simple.
“...Fang Zheng... It’s a good name. You’re a good kid.” Bai smiled, unusually kindly. “Alright, I’ll leave you to it. Take your time. Just close the door when you’re done.”
After Bai left, Fang Zheng stood behind the bench where he usually sat, gazing at the Holy Mother in a daze. He hadn’t come back to attend the funeral, but to return the money.
Since graduating college and starting work, Wang Rong had still transferred money to him every month. He hadn’t refused, knowing this was her way of buying herself peace of mind—and she was not a woman who accepted rejection.
He hadn’t spent a cent of it. Now that she had returned to the Holy Mother’s embrace, he would donate the money to the Society as a way of giving it back to her.
Fang Zheng had carefully examined photos from all stages of his life. As a child, he looked much like Wang Rong, but by age eleven or twelve, he more closely resembled his father.
He remembered that, at that age, Wang Rong was busy fighting for her career. It was his father who cared for him, helped with his homework, played basketball with him, listened to his troubles.
Apart from a few important holidays each year, his mother had all but vanished from his life and upbringing. Perhaps that was why he started to “look” more like his father.
His memories of Wang Rong as a mother were just fragments from childhood. It wasn’t until he studied in the US and met Xia Lixian and Aunt Xia that he truly understood what a mother should be.
For the past three years, Fang Zheng had watched his father and Aunt Xia grow younger—a vitality born of love, family, and a zest for life.
Since the year before last, Fang Zheng had unconsciously started calling Xia Yu “Mom.”
Not long ago, he received an email from Wang Rong saying she would be in San Francisco and hoped to meet. He told his father, who let him decide.
Still hesitating, he dreamed of Wang Rong kneeling before the statue in the chapel, her back to him. But in the dream, he saw horns slowly grow from her head.
So Fang Zheng decided to politely decline.
The dream was only one reason. The main reason was that, as he grew, his emotional ties to his mother had faded, and after the Xing Jun incident, they had completely disappeared.
Fang Zheng had not—and in truth, never had the chance to—express his feelings or views to his mother about it.
His mother had betrayed his father, betrayed him, and their family. Could one or two meetings mend a family crushed to dust? Impossible.
He had wanted to visit the chapel to see if it was as in his dream.
Except for that bench and the painting, it was exactly the same.
“Holy Mother, if it was truly you warning me, I thank you. I’ll take care of Dad, Mom, and my little brother, and won’t let your good intentions go to waste.” Fang Zheng looked up at the statue and said.
With that, he turned and left.
He decided not to linger—he would fly back to San Francisco tonight. That was his real home. He thought, unless necessary, he would never return.
Before closing the door, Fang Zheng took a last look at the Holy Mother. She still bowed her head gently, like a loving mother, a kind smile on her face.
“Goodbye.” Fang Zheng bid the Holy Mother his final farewell.
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the door was shut once more, completely and utterly.
End of Chapter Eleven
This story is purely fictional. Any resemblance to real persons is coincidental. The author explores only the connection between female destiny and faith, and does not target any real individual.
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The Legend of Wang Rong: How the Persona of the Earthly Holy Mother Was Forged120Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡjb5Hp5JNu0
Chapter Eleven: The Holy Mother’s Smile120Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡsWOD8l86cO
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