Chapter 201: Home, Family, Relatives

In the dimly lit room, the three of them sat around the dining table. Nearby on a sideboard, a radio crackled, its nearly broken speaker distorting a female voice singing an opera.

They ate a dinner that looked like mush, paired with a bottle of decent but inexpensive wine. The feeling was hard to describe.

Not long after Lynch finished his meal, Nail took a large spoonful and asked while eating, “So, what did you come here for? To mock us for living like we used to?”

Nail immediately showed his hostility. This was his territory, his family—no one could interfere with his control.

In many different cultures, the social and family relationships of the Federation are baffling, much like how Federation people view others.

Culture is the key to society.

As a child, whenever Nail got angry, Lynch felt a crushing pressure and fear, like facing a landslide or tsunami. Angry Nail was like a volcano about to erupt.

Back then, Nail was younger, stronger, more commanding. Now, things seemed different.

Nail was less intimidating. For most kids, that might mean their parent was growing old, but Lynch saw it differently.

“You’re old…” Lynch shrugged and looked at Nail. “So let’s not get angry. Let’s talk calmly and rationally. I’m not here to cause trouble or laugh at you. I just came to see you.”

Lynch hid the phone call from Serra. Nail didn’t have a habit of domestic violence, but if the truth came out, it would make things difficult for Serra, so Lynch kept it to himself.

“When I was talking to Serra, I heard you lost your job. Do you have any plans?” Lynch asked, watching Nail, who kept his head down, silently eating.

A faint smile appeared on Lynch’s face. “Come on, think of me as an acquaintance, a friend. Isn’t that what we always say?”

The Federation’s education system often says: Parents are a child’s best friends.

This phrase is widely accepted and has played a key role in shaping education, family, and social relations—setting aside crimes caused by family issues.

Nail quickly finished the food, then scraped the edges of the bowl with his fingers and ate the remnants.

He then raised a glass—probably the best wine he’d ever tasted—gulped it down, rinsing the mouth along with the food residue.

Lynch kept watching him until Nail looked up. “Yeah, I’m unemployed. You here to give me a job? Should I call you boss like the others?”

That was perhaps Nail’s last shred of dignity as a father, mixed with a hint of sarcasm.

Lynch showed little expression. At his real age, these things seemed almost amusing.

As a skilled persuader, dealing with someone like Nail required little effort.

He didn’t deny or agree, but changed the subject. “Lots of people are losing jobs lately. Remember Katherine? Her father lost his job too.”

That struck a chord with Nail, and Serra quickly joined in. “I know. Your girlfriend’s father lost his job too? That’s terrible!”

Lynch nodded. “After I found out, I talked with her and arranged a job for him. I recently started a transportation company—you know, warehouses and trucks.”

At one time, warehouse and trucking jobs were highly sought after among the working class—stable and decent income.

Nail complained, “I know that guy. He’s only good for dirty work. What job did you give him?”

“Manager. It’s not hard—just keeping records of what comes in and out, watching the workers so they don’t steal,” Lynch said casually, as if it was nothing.

Serra glanced at Nail. The couple communicated briefly in a way outsiders wouldn’t understand, then she said, “He’s definitely not as good as your father. You know your father’s always been the best—at home and in the factory.”

Lynch smiled with a hint of playfulness. “Now he calls me boss.”

Nail immediately bristled. “I won’t call you boss!”

Lynch clapped his hands. “Then it’s settled. I’ll get you a job, but you won’t call me boss!”

Nail hesitated. They locked eyes; his face flushed. Suddenly he stood up, muttering “I’m full,” and quickly went back to his room.

After closing the door, Nail went to the bedside table, opened a drawer, and took out a photo frame holding three smiling faces.

Outside the room, Serra smiled brightly, holding Lynch’s hand, unsure how to express herself.

Lynch was her child, but she was grateful to him. Lynch patted her hand. “No thanks needed. It’s what I should do. We’re family.”

That night, Lynch didn’t leave. When darkness fell, the streets outside became unsafe, but surprisingly, living here felt secure.

Perhaps because the street’s people knew the residents had no wealth, so they never considered robbing a poor family and risking long prison sentences or enraging desperate defenders. Studies show the rich often cooperate during home invasions, but poor families fight back fiercely.

Around eleven, as Lynch lay drowsy on his short bed, the bedroom door knocked.

Nail poked his head in, holding half a bottle of wine, signaling a peace offering.

Soon the two sat in the living room, bathed in night’s quiet, watching a snow-speckled TV with an unfunny show.

There was little deeper conversation—just raising and lowering glasses, and drinking the wine.

The next morning, Lynch rubbed his head awake. The Federation’s alcohol bottles held between 680 and 760 ml. Drinking so much at once still unsettled him.

Looking at the clock, it was past ten. He slapped his face to wake up. Outside, Nail sat on the worn sofa watching TV.

Compared to Lynch’s hangover, Nail’s drinking seemed to have no effect.

They exchanged a glance, then looked away. But Serra keenly sensed their relationship had improved, which comforted her.

After two years apart, aside from some unfamiliarity, how much conflict could remain?

Lynch was doing well now. Nail just wouldn’t admit defeat out loud, but inside he was proud—a truth common to most parents.

On one hand, they demand much from their children; on the other, they’re proud of them.

“Are we eating at home for lunch?” Serra asked. If so, she planned to buy beef. Last night’s meal had been too simple—lunch should be better.

Lynch shook his head, having woken much later than he expected. “No, Nail and I will go to the company. Also, give me your bank account. I’m an adult now—I have a reason to help with the family expenses.”

Yes, by Federation law, Lynch was twenty and finally an adult. Some might have had children running around at his age, but that was allowed by law.

Serra hesitated, but Nail impatiently said, “Give it to him. He should do something.”

After getting the bank details, Lynch said goodbye to Serra. He didn’t give her a check—checks were not a good thing in poor areas.

Cash-backed checks require large deposits; a $20 check often meant hundreds or thousands held as security. Transfer checks indicated frequent large transactions, tempting those already on the edge.

Lynch preferred to transfer money directly to Serra’s account, so withdrawing wouldn’t attract attention. After all, even street homeless had bank accounts, and deposits or withdrawals were normal.

Soon, an unremarkable car appeared briefly by the road—one from the community service company.

Last time Lynch drove his own car to Katherine’s home, causing her family a lot of trouble. This time, he was smarter.

In the car, Nail asked, “What kind of job are you planning to give me?”

“I have a piece of land on the outskirts of the city. I’m about to start some manual work there. I also own a small construction company that currently needs a manager,” Lynch smiled. “How does being a manager sound?”