Sometimes it takes a lifetime for truth to reveal itself

I realized early my parents were not equal. Mom said Dad risked being demoted when he went AWOL one night and took a train to see her. Their life together didn't appear to be happy. Mom grew up in a family of scholars and loved writing. Dad joined the army at 17. He'd stumble when reading the newspaper.

I grew up listening to Mom's complaints. She often smashed things and punched Dad, saying how blind she was to marry a useless man. She always said Dad had nothing but weakness and the only thing he did well was amuse other people.

We used to live in a crowded building where people cooked in the corridor. Mom did not cook.

"I was not born for the kitchen," she said. It was Dad who came home every weekend from the army base and cooked all the dishes we would eat for a whole week.

Whenever Mom cried, Dad would silently prepare a pot of soup. As the fragrance drifted through the door, Mom would sit down, waiting for Dad to bring in the pot.

When Dad finally got a transfer order to work nearer home, Mom's complaints became almost unbearable. Dad remained silent and cooked delicacies for us. Soon after I entered university, Dad fell ill. Doctors said he had liver cancer. Thunderstruck, I hurried home.

The sight of Mom sitting by Dad and reading books to him in hospital made me hate her. If she had shouldered more responsibility and complained less, I thought, Dad would not have been so ill. For the first time in my life, I yelled at her: "You think you support the family by earning money? Without Dad, your money is useless!"

Three months before he passed away, Dad insisted on going home. The first thing he did was don an apron and enter the kitchen. Silently, Mom leaned on the door, watching Dad busying around. I was in tears and couldn't help lashing out again: "Dad has cooked for you all his life. Couldn't you cook for yourself, just once?"

But neither of them heeded me. Dad cooked for us for five days before we had to send him back to the hospital. Mom did nothing but read.

"You've never read my books. Now you are ill, just lie there and listen to me. I've written about you and me," she told Dad.

Before Dad left, he asked me to stay with Mom and cook for her. Then he apologized to her for not being able to cook any more. She cried for a whole week and ate nothing.

I was too busy to fulfill my promise and often bought dishes from restaurants. Once I came home late and found Mom in the kitchen. She was cutting potatoes, tears rolling down her cheeks.

Six years after Dad passed away, Mom also departed. She asked me to burn all her books and Dad's photos so they would be together forever.

That night, I finished all her books, which I had never touched. I finally understood how deeply Mom had loved Dad and depended on him, though she expressed her love differently.

(China Daily 01/09/2008 page20)