After I started working in the city, my father never visited again. He retired from teaching and stayed home to take care of my youngest daughter. He never sent him any of my works. Two years ago, my aunt came to visit and asked if I had written a novella. She said my father had heard about it from others and had spent half a day going to several bookstores and post offices in the county to buy it, but he couldn't find it. I was very saddened to hear this. From then on, whenever I wrote something, I would send him a copy, and he would always send it back to me, covered in dense handwriting. In his letters to me, he said he really wanted to come, because his youngest daughter was already running around all over the place, and he was afraid that if he stayed away from us for too long, we would become estranged. A year passed, but he didn't come. He only sent a photo of his youngest daughter each month, urging me to write diligently, saying, "You're at the prime of your life, so work hard! Even farmers winnowing grain need the wind to get as much as possible! But I heard you drink a lot; that's a bad habit. I know it's all because I haven't set a good example for you. I've stopped drinking now." Receiving the letter, I felt deeply ashamed and vowed never to drink again. I wrote back, urging him and his youngest daughter to come and stay in the city so I could take good care of him.
However, not long after, I got into some trouble. My work sparked controversy in the newspapers. Controversy is normal, but in this complex society, abnormal opinions emerged, quickly escalating into all sorts of rumors and gossip beyond the work itself. I was distressed and even more timid, like a country bumpkin carrying eggs into the city, cautiously avoiding being knocked over. In my confusion, I felt I shouldn't have let my father come, but before I could reply, he arrived on a rainy day, carrying his child and taking a bus.
The old man looked very thin, and his eyes, which had suffered from cataracts, seemed even more dull than before. Upon seeing him, I felt a little apprehensive. He glanced at me, then put down his youngest daughter and pointed at me, telling her to call him "Dad." The little girl tilted her head, looked at me timidly, and just as she approached me, she suddenly turned and ran into her father's arms. He laughed and said, "Look at her, she's so distant. How could I not come?"
My father settled in; we slept in the west room, and he slept in the east room. The little girl gradually became affectionate with us. But at night, she still needed her father to hold her as she slept. I told my husband not to tell my father anything, and when he came home from work, I would talk to him with a smile. He was very happy, always talking about how cute our little girl was and teasing her, telling her to show us all her tricks. Every evening, many people came to our house, all talking about the gossip circulating in society and the articles published in the newspapers criticizing me. I would close the west door and ask them to be quiet. As soon as my father came in, we would stop talking. But my heart was in turmoil. Although I always spoke to my father with a smile, I couldn't help but scold my little daughter when she became noisy, and often spanked her. At this point, my father would come over, take the child, and say that she was too tender to be hit, that hitting her would only create distance, and coax her to the east room. I sat alone for a while, feeling that I was wrong, but not wanting to explain to my father, I went to check on them. As soon as I opened the door, I saw my father quietly shedding tears, quickly pretending that his eyes were blurry, rubbing them, and talking to me. My heart ached even more.
From then on, when I came home from work, my father would ask me to play with my little daughter more, saying that he and the child would have to go back home in a few days. However, many people came at night, and whenever someone came, he would take the child to the east room again. This Sunday, early in the morning, my father wrote a note and posted it on the door: "No one is home today," and asked the family to go for a walk in the fields outside the city. When we got to the fields, he pulled my little daughter along, making her call us "Dad" and "Mom." Later, he said he was going to buy some candy for the children and went to a shop some distance away. He returned quite a while later, his waist bulging. He first pulled out a bag of candy, gave a handful to his youngest daughter, and gave the rest to my wife, telling them to go play. Then he asked me to sit down and reached into his pocket—a bottle of liquor and a packet of braised mutton. I was puzzled: my father had stopped drinking long ago and opposed my drinking, so why had he bought liquor now? He forcefully opened the bottle cap with his teeth and said, “Ping’er, let’s have a drink. I have something to tell you. You’ve been hiding it from me, but I know everything. I wasn’t originally planning to come so soon, but I heard you made a mistake, and I didn’t know what happened. I was afraid you hadn’t experienced anything, so I came to see you. I saw the article in the newspaper the day before yesterday at the newsstand on the street. I don’t think it’s a big deal. You’ve had it too easy; without a few setbacks, you won’t amount to much! Of course, we don’t go looking for trouble, but…” "Don't be afraid of trouble. No matter what others say, you must have your own opinion. Life is full of ups and downs; you can't always walk a smooth road. You've only just begun your journey in this field. If you want to dedicate your life to it, don't be misled by temporary gains or losses. That's what I'm telling you. Let's have a drink today and get rid of all our worries. Here, have a drink, and I'll have one too."
He took a sip, his face immediately turning red, his skin twitching, and finally he swallowed, exhaling breaths through his mouth. His expression—unable to drink but insisting—made my hands tremble as I couldn't take the bottle he offered, and tears streamed down my face.
After drinking half a bottle, the family played happily in the fields until dark before returning home. My father stayed a few more days before taking his youngest daughter back to the countryside. But I never drank that half-bottle of wine again. I kept it on my desk, often looking at it, and from then on, I was free from worries, and I didn't sink into despair.
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