While people were still debating whether having a child from a one-night stand was selfish or responsible, An Huai's child had already safely made it to their third year.

Three years ago, at twenty-six, An Huai was already a senior stenographer. Due to her busy work schedule, she often quarreled with her boyfriend, and eventually, they broke up.

That day, she went out of town for an event, and after it ended, the organizers invited her to dinner.

Believing herself to be a good drinker, she indulged.

Everyone at the dinner table seemed far from ordinary, each bearing the label of "society" in one way or another. But after so many years in the field, she was no longer surprised by such company.

There's a saying, "Either change or adapt," and she was the latter.

After the meal, someone offered to drive her back to the hotel. She thanked them at the door, still standing straight, but as soon as she entered the elevator, her head began to spin.

She leaned gently against the elevator, just wanting to get back to her room and sleep.

In front of her stood a young couple, holding hands and whispering. Judging by their excited expressions, they were probably discussing their plans for the next day.

She glanced at them before closing her eyes. She had once been young too, she thought.

Now, her high-intensity work left her with little time to catch her breath, let alone think about other things.

She admitted that she had never been one to pursue stability and tranquility, nor did she ever hide her desires.

The elevator had already reached the top floor, and only after everyone else had left did An Huai suddenly realize she had forgotten to press the button for her floor.

She smiled bitterly, stepped forward, and pressed the button, but after staying in the small, confined space of the elevator for so long, her head was spinning even more.

That night was like countless others—dark, silent, yet filled with an air of temptation.

The cliché scene of entering the wrong room happened to An Huai. She had always thought such things were just made up for novels and TV dramas. But when the door opened from the inside, she realized that such stories indeed stemmed from real life.

A man wearing pajamas and with a white towel draped around his neck answered the door. He was unwilling to be disturbed, casually wiping his still-wet hair as he asked, "Who is it?"

After glancing at An Huai, he impatiently added, "You've got the wrong room." He instinctively began to close the door.

"Oh, sorry."

An Huai pursed her lips and continued searching for her room in the maze-like hallway, unaware that she was circling back to the same room.

After a few more turns, she found herself back at the same door, persistently trying to open it with her room keycard, still oblivious to her mistake.

The door opened again, and this time, the man's hair was dry, with his semi-long bangs looking incredibly soft.

He scrutinized An Huai with a curious gaze, unable to figure out what this woman was up to.

An Huai, too, stared at him in a daze—he was really good-looking.

After a long moment of mutual gazing, the man stepped aside without a word, and An Huai, in a strange moment of understanding, entered the room as if possessed.

In the middle of the night, An Huai woke up to find a warm hand casually resting on her waist, with her back pressed against a warm, unfamiliar man's chest.

The room was pitch dark, with only a small blue light blinking in the distance.

She struggled to turn over, then drifted back into sleep.

She was twenty-six; she could take responsibility for her actions.

When An Huai woke up the next morning, it was nearly ten o'clock. She was alone in bed.

Her clothes were neatly folded at the bedside. As she looked at the untouched room, she felt as if the wildness of the night before had been nothing but a dream.

The man had left no trace of himself. An Huai chuckled at the word that came to her lips: "One night?"

Wearing the same clothes from the previous night, she went to the front desk, determined to find out what had happened.

When the staff recited her room number, she realized with a start that she had completely misremembered her room.

Her heart suddenly felt like it was filled with waterlogged cotton, heavy and weighed down, making even her steps feel burdensome.

Sitting in the hotel dining area, An Huai ordered a cup of bitter coffee, no sugar. The rising steam curled around her nose as she placed a box of emergency contraceptive pills beside her right hand.

The deep, slow chime of the clock in the lobby reminded her that it was time to take the pill.

As she swallowed the pill with the help of her coffee, An Huai's thoughts wandered back to the stranger's body and touch, which made her feel a bit ashamed.

Many things in this world defy logic, she mused. Even strangers can engage in the most intimate physical acts.

Her worst fear had come true.

"Could there be a mistake? I definitely took the pill."

"Taking the pill isn't foolproof. Should we schedule the procedure right away?" The doctor’s mouth moved as she mechanically watched, for the first time no longer seeing these people in white coats as angels.

She nodded helplessly and then sat alone in the hospital corridor, waiting. As she touched her still-flat stomach, she couldn't imagine that a small life had already been growing there for over two months.

Her knowledge in this area was limited; she only knew that the longer she waited, the greater the risk of the procedure.

Just as she was lost in thought, her phone rang. It was an urgent task—a cultural heritage project needed a stenographer.

Without hesitation, she agreed and went home to prepare her materials.

Leaving the hospital so quickly, she wasn't sure what she was running from. Perhaps no woman would ever truly feel comfortable around those cold machines.

It took her three days to muster the courage to return to the hospital, but just as she was about to enter the operating room, she fled again.

Standing at a busy intersection, she called her mother, crying as she said, "Mom, I'm pregnant. I want to keep the baby."

The streets were filled with the sound of tires on asphalt and the chatter of passersby. For the first time, her mother spoke to her sternly and decisively, "An Huai, you must terminate this pregnancy."

"Mom, I'm scared."

"Being scared now is better than being scared later. You're oversimplifying everything. Raising a child alone as a woman involves so many challenges. An Huai, this is about your happiness for the rest of your life."

In the end, she didn't listen to her mother. After all, she'd been rebellious her entire life.

Her mother took early retirement and came to the city where An Huai lived to stay with her.

In the days following her mother's arrival, a heavy atmosphere hung over her small apartment. Her mother's eyes were slightly red, but she remained silent.

As for An Huai, she showed no signs of pregnancy—she ate well, slept well, continued taking on tasks, and attending events.

Eventually, her parents accepted the situation and began to adapt to their roles as grandparents.

But then, An Huai started to lose sleep. She wondered if she was being too selfish, so she decided to find the man from that night.

She asked a friend in the police department to help her obtain a certificate and then went to the hotel to find out who the man was.

But damn it, she had forgotten the room number again, only remembering the floor.

The hotel staff looked troubled, "Sorry, our footage is routinely cleared. As for the registration records, we can only access the full list of guests under special circumstances."

After many obstacles, she finally identified two possible men, but upon seeing their photos, she knew they weren't the one.

She sat dejectedly in a chair, and her friend analyzed the situation for her, suggesting that someone else might have booked the room for the man, making it difficult to track him down.

"Why are you so determined to have the baby? Aren't you afraid it will be a burden?"

"But if I terminate the pregnancy, I'll live with guilt for the rest of my life. You don't understand—although the baby isn't fully formed yet, I can already feel the deep bond between mother and child."

The child was born without any complications—a girl with especially beautiful eyes, just like that stranger's.

She named her An Jinghuan. "Jing" and "Huan" are opposites, yet harmonious, reflecting the state of mind she had during her pregnancy.

A hundred days after the baby was born, An Huai joined a single mothers' club to learn more about raising a child.

It was only after joining that she realized there were so many single mothers in society.

However, most of them had willingly borne children out of love; they all knew who the father was, but were abandoned. Few, like her, had decided to keep a child conceived in a one-night stand.

They told her, "You're really brave."

An Huai felt their tone was strange, like a mix of admiration and mockery.

The atmosphere in the club was not as positive as she had imagined. It was filled with complaints and anxiety, with many of them desperately trying to find a father for their child.

They said to her, "Even with help, it's still a nightmare. It's so hard, so lonely, raising a child as a woman."

An Huai retorted, "I admit that being a single mom is harder than being single, but single moms also experience the joy of motherhood."

"Joy? Imagine this: your entire life will revolve around the child. You'll be the one changing diapers, feeding, teaching them to dress, and putting them to bed."

"You'll need to play with them, answer all their endless questions, and tolerate all their tantrums."

"And if they get sick, it'll be torture, physically and mentally. Oh, it's exhausting."

They continued to chatter on, and instead of learning anything useful, An Huai felt overwhelmed by negativity.

There were indeed many aspects she hadn't considered, like the difficulties of registering her child's household, which turned out to be much harder than she had imagined.