On the first Monday after my fortieth birthday, I sat in the office staring blankly at the computer screen. My year-end bonus had just arrived, and there was a seven-figure number in my account. In previous years, I would have already swept through major shopping apps by this time, but this year was different. The words my mom casually said when I went home last week kept echoing in my mind: "Your dad's hearing aid is broken again. A good one costs over twenty thousand. Let's hold off for now."

That sentence felt like a thorn stuck in my heart. At nine o'clock in the evening, I curled up alone on the sofa, opened WeChat, clicked into my mom's chat box, and when the transfer page popped up, I almost didn't hesitate and directly entered one hundred thousand. I only wrote four words in the note: "For you to spend."

In the second my finger hovered over the confirm button, I suddenly felt a bit weak in the knees. One hundred thousand is not a small amount. Last year, I took a red-eye flight to Tokyo to save money and stayed in a capsule hotel, but now I was about to send it away with a single click. My heart raced, and I even imagined a thousand scenarios of them refusing: "Mom, don't spend recklessly. I need to save for my own house; how about you take fifty thousand first, and I'll give you the rest next time..." But in the end, I still gritted my teeth and clicked it.

When the four green words "Transfer Successful" popped up, I felt like I had been drained of all energy. It wasn't excitement; it was real pain, so painful that I almost dropped my phone. One hundred thousand! That was the money I earned by staying up until four in the morning last year, the medical expenses from accompanying the client until I was sick, the compensation for not spending time with my wife and kids while working overtime on weekends—all of it flew away with that "ding."

My mom replied instantly with a voice message, her voice an octave higher: "Son, are you crazy? One hundred thousand? Have you been scammed? I'm going to the police station right now!"

Before I could respond, she sent a red envelope of ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine, with the note saying, "I'll return this to you first. Mom is afraid you might drink too much and accidentally hit an extra zero."

I stared at my phone, feeling like I was about to crack.

Then my dad sent a screenshot of the bank statement, clear as if he was deliberately giving me a lesson: the one hundred thousand I just transferred had already been broken down into pieces. Forty thousand went directly to a "Stable Happiness" retirement financial product jointly issued by the bank and insurance, with an annualized return that sounded louder than square dance music; thirty thousand was deposited into a five-year fixed term, supposedly to be saved for my son to attend a private kindergarten; twenty thousand was used to buy physical gold nuggets, packed one gram at a time in little red bags, said to be for inflation and war protection; eight thousand was put into a lottery app, with the note saying, "In case you win five million to marry a wife"; the remaining twenty-two thousand all went into my mom's stock account, buying the new energy vehicle leader she had been watching for three months that was hitting the daily limit.

My dad laughed in the voice message as if he had won the jackpot: "Your mom said, if this money is in your card, it's dead money. If it's with her, it can give birth! Don't feel bad; wait until next year when the dividends come, and I'll give you a red envelope of three hundred thousand!"

My mom snatched the phone to add more: "Right! Son, you don't know, do you? Your dad took the coins we saved for twenty-five years to the bank last week and exchanged them for forty-one thousand, all of which he used to buy index funds! Your dad and I are now professional players, specifically managing your idle money!"

I sat on the sofa, staring at that dazzling array of operations, feeling like I had been rubbed on the ground by two old foxes three hundred times. It turned out that the one hundred thousand I worked so hard to earn had completed an epic transformation in their hands in less than five hours: from my heartache to their asset allocation, and then to the soon-to-be-born "third-generation family education fund."

The absurdity didn't stop there. At midnight that day, I scrolled through the family group and found that my mom had already started a large-scale Versailles scene: "My son transferred me one hundred thousand today, saying it's pocket money! I couldn't push it away!" She attached eleven pictures, the first one was her taking a selfie in front of the fitting mirror in a newly bought Loro Piana coat, the second was her wearing a new Cartier necklace, the third was her posing in a parking lot with an Hermès Birkin bag, and the last eight were different angles of her showing off. She even tagged my dad in the group: "Old partner, quickly tell the kids that you've already helped our son double this one hundred thousand plan!"

My dad instantly replied with a smug emoji, saying: "Don't worry, next year let him cry and shout to send over another three hundred thousand!"

I looked at my phone, going from shock to numbness to a strange sense of reassurance. It turned out I thought I was conducting a grand act of filial piety, but in reality, I was just giving two old foxes who had already achieved financial freedom another round of ammunition. They understood compound interest better than I did, were bolder than I was, and knew how to directly convert "filial piety" into "transferable assets."

What broke me the most was the next morning at seven o'clock when my mom sent a three-minute long voice message: "Son, I couldn't sleep last night, so I studied your one hundred thousand again and decided to take out another thirty thousand to buy you three broad-based index funds with an expected annualized return of over 10%. Don't rush to thank me; when you're sixty, I promise you'll be lying down collecting money! Also, your dad said your car needs to be changed. He has already found a Porsche Taycan for you, and he'll cover the down payment; you can slowly pay back the remaining amount!"

I leaned back on the sofa and suddenly laughed out loud, tears streaming down my face. It turned out that filial piety was never just about giving money; it was an endless relay race of family affection. You think you've finally reached the starting line, but in fact, they have already run ten marathons and are waiting for you at the finish line, smiling as they hand the baton back to you, saying, "Child, come on, it's your turn for the next leg."

I wiped my tears and suddenly wanted to transfer another two hundred thousand. Not out of filial piety, but simply to see what new tricks these two old foxes could come up with next. Maybe next year they could really give me five hundred thousand and innocently say, "See, Mom told you, your money is much better off with her than with you!"

So this is what turning forty is like. It's not that you finally have the ability to support your parents, but that you finally qualify to join their family financial management game that they've been playing for thirty years. You think you're being a great filial son, but in reality, you've just upgraded from "the lamb being sheared" to "the advanced sheep actively giving wool." But the most wonderful part is that this feeling of being "taken advantage of" actually makes me feel secure enough to cry.

I opened my phone and clicked into the transfer page again. This time I didn't hesitate and directly entered three hundred thousand. The note changed to eight words: "Play freely, win freely, interest belongs to you."

At the moment I clicked it, I suddenly understood. True filial piety is when you finally dare to hand over your money to them and willingly wait to be "educated" by them once again. To be "taken advantage of" once more. To be "taken along" once again.

It turns out we were never supporting them; we were just continuing to be their children in another way.

I leaned back on the sofa, threw my phone aside, and suddenly laughed out loud, tears streaming down my face. It turned out I thought turning forty meant it was finally my turn to take charge, but it was just a more advanced position, continuing to be managed, pampered, and calculated by them, willingly remaining a child for life.

At the moment I transferred out three hundred thousand, I no longer felt heartache; I just felt that a place in my heart that had been empty for twenty years was suddenly filled. It turned out that filial piety wasn't just about stuffing money into their hands; it was that you finally dared to hand over your heart as well, and then watched them take your heart and money, continuing to arrange your future clearly and joyfully.

I closed my eyes and heard the voices of them calling me for dinner from my childhood ringing in my ears again. This time, I didn't rush over; I just smiled and replied, "Coming, I'll be there soon."

It turns out we spend our whole lives rushing, but we can never outrun their love. If you can't outrun it, then don't run; obediently hand over your wallet and your later life, because they spend better than we do and are more willing to spend for us.

I sent my mom a voice message, saying just six words: "From now on, my salary card belongs to you."

There was a two-second pause on the other end, followed by my mom's pig-like scream and my dad's loudest laugh ever.

At that moment, I finally understood that true filial piety is when you willingly lose everything but gain a lifetime of reassurance.