Dad

My heart aches so much after reading this!

[Forwarded]: [The Lonely Elderly]!!!

My father lived to the ripe old age of 83, and his life came to an end. The last ten years of his life were spent in silence—no blame, no complaints, but through repeated moves, repeated concessions, and repeated silences, he completely woke me up, making me finally understand the cruelest truth: the seemingly fair rotation of care that children claim to provide is actually our most respectable, yet most ignorant, form of filial impiety.

There are four of us siblings. In the early days after my father retired, he was healthy and agile, living alone in our old house in our hometown. He cooked, did laundry, shopped, and managed all the household chores by himself, never troubling any of his children.

Every holiday and festival when we siblings went back to visit him, he would always wave us off, smiling gently as he told us to go about our lives, repeatedly saying that everything was fine and we didn't need to worry. At that time, we all thought this peaceful life would continue forever.

Then, an accidental fall fractured my father's femoral neck. After major surgery, he could no longer walk easily and had to use crutches. His health deteriorated rapidly.

Following this, his memory declined rapidly. He often forgot to turn off the stove while cooking, and he couldn't find his way home after going out. These dangerous situations occurred frequently. We all knew that our elderly father was no longer suitable to live alone in the old house. That winter, my eldest sister called a family meeting that lasted the entire afternoon. She said it was too risky for our father to live alone and without anyone to care for him. She proposed that the four families take turns caring for him, each staying for three months at a time. The rules were fair and transparent, everyone shared responsibility, and no one would be disadvantaged or burdened. We all immediately agreed and quickly drew up a yearly care schedule: January to March at my eldest sister's house, April to June at my second sister's, July to September at my eldest brother's, and October to December at my own. It was perfectly fair, without any discrepancies. At the time, we secretly felt that we had fulfilled our duty as children, doing our filial duty flawlessly.

But I will never forget the image of my father packing his bags for the first time, preparing for the rotation. He sat quietly on the edge of the bed in the old house, repeatedly folding those faded, worn-out clothes, neatly placing them in his suitcase, then taking them all out again and rearranging them, over and over, his movements slow and persistent.

His thin, bony fingers trembled slightly, his lips pressed tightly together, and he remained silent the entire time. My heart ached for him, and I asked if he was looking for something. He glanced at me indifferently, then quickly looked down at the clothes in his hands, gently shaking his head and saying no.

It wasn't until much later that I fully understood that he was searching for something he could never find again—his home, the place he had lived his whole life, his last vestige of belonging.

The three months my father stayed with us were the most agonizing and guilt-ridden period of my life. The torment wasn't the physical exhaustion of caring for an elderly person, but rather the constant, cautious, and precarious way he moved, a constant piercing of my heart.

After arriving at my home, he never dared to sit on the sofa to rest. No matter what, he would only sit on the small stool he had brought from the old house, as if only that old stool could give him a sense of security. When I offered to serve him food at meals, he would always politely thank me. His own son, yet he acted with the politeness of a stranger, like a guest staying at a guesthouse. My wife is mopping and cleaning at home. Whenever he sees her, he immediately panics and hides in his room, staying quietly until the floor is completely clean and everything is tidied up before he dares to sneak out.

One night, late at night, I got up to use the bathroom. Passing by my father's room, I overheard very low sighs coming from inside. They weren't relaxed sighs; they were muffled sighs, suppressed emotions, born of fear of disturbing us.

I stood outside the door, tears instantly streaming down my face, my heart aching with sorrow. For three months, ninety days, he sighed every single day, never letting us notice a trace of his emotions, swallowing all his loneliness, anxiety, and resentment alone.

The most heartbreaking scene happened in the second month of his stay at my second sister's house. That day, he suddenly called me. After I answered, he remained silent for a long time, so quiet I thought the signal was lost. I repeatedly asked him if he was unwell or if something was wrong. After a long while, I finally heard his hoarse, weak voice slowly emerge. He said, "My second sister's grandson asked me, 'Grandpa, why are you staying at our house again?'" He then abruptly ended the call.

Later, I learned from my second sister that ever since that innocent remark from the child, my father had completely shut himself off. He refused to step into my second sister's living room, spending all his time in his dark, small secondary bedroom, with the curtains drawn and the door tightly shut, unwilling to communicate with anyone or go outside.

Every time my second sister brought him food, he would only say indifferently, "Just leave it at the door," unwilling to see anyone or trouble anyone. A few innocent words from a child, yet they caused the elderly man to completely suppress all his carefree spirit, turning him into a timid, silent, and timid old cat, cautiously making a living.

When it came to his sister-in-law's family, the situation was even more heartbreaking. His sister-in-law always secretly disliked the smell of old age emanating from him, fearing it would permeate the sofa, bed, and bedding. So, she specially prepared separate bowls, chopsticks, towels, and slippers for him, each item clearly labeled and distinct.

Each label was like a tiny blade, slowly scraping away the last vestiges of his self-respect. Yet, he never complained, never argued, never uttered a word of dissatisfaction, simply silently enduring all the alienation and differential treatment.

From then on, my father developed a heartbreaking habit: every week before a move, he would silently pack all his belongings, neatly fold his clothes, pack his medicine bottles, and securely tie his little stool to the outside of his bag. Then he would sit quietly on the edge of the bed, silently waiting for the next child to come and take him away, waiting to move again from his temporary residence to a new, unfamiliar environment.

By the third year, my father had become completely taciturn, utterly unwilling to speak. No matter which child's house he moved to, he was always the same: no smiles, no words, no emotions. If given food, he would eat quietly; if not, he would silently endure without complaining of hunger. When tired, he would close his eyes and sleep; when he couldn't sleep, he would lie quietly, lost in thought.

My wife once gently advised him to go for a walk and soak up the sun on a sunny day, but he simply shook his head and refused. When his grandson happily called him grandpa, he would only gently pat the child's head, then withdraw his hand, remaining silent.

He was like a plant uprooted and repeatedly moved, drifting from one of his four children's homes. With each move, his vitality waned, his leaves withered. By the third year, this tenacious old tree had completely lost its life and its branches.

After my father passed away, while sorting through his belongings, I found a line of crooked handwriting on the first page of a worn, faded phone book. I could clearly see the difficulty in his grip, the effort he had expended to write those words: "I have no home anymore. Four children, four homes, none of them are mine."

These few words instantly shattered me, making my years of self-righteous filial piety seem absurd and laughable. My four siblings and I had always been obsessed with fairness, meticulously dividing the time, responsibility, and labor of our care. Our shift schedules were watertight, and the allocation of responsibilities was equal for everyone. We always felt we were being responsible, respectable, and impeccable, but none of us ever genuinely asked our father: "Where do you want to live? Whose home do you want to stay in?" Where do you want to settle down?

In truth, Father had already secretly told us his wish in the gentlest way, but none of us ever understood or took it to heart.

My eldest sister's house was near a traditional market; every morning, we could hear the bustling sounds of vendors selling tofu. He had whispered that my sister's place was lively and full of life. My second sister's house was on the ground floor, with a small patch of land in front where two rose bushes bloomed every year. He had also silently admired how beautiful the roses were in front of my second sister's house.

What he longed for was never a luxurious environment, but simply a place where he could settle down, without having to move around constantly, where there was warmth and familiar scenery—even just a small space would be enough to bring him peace of mind.

But we were bound by the framework of fairness, stubbornly taking turns, stubbornly moving him around, stubbornly fulfilling our seemingly perfect filial duties, completely ignoring all his hints and expectations.

For a full ten years, my father, over eighty years old, moved forty times to conform to our so-called fairness. Forty times he packed his bags, forty times he relocated, forty times he adapted to unfamiliar rooms, unfamiliar kitchens, unfamiliar environments, each time abandoning the warmth of newly acquired familiarity and stepping into entirely new and unfamiliar surroundings.

We calculated the time, divided the responsibilities, and talked about fairness to the fullest, but we never asked him where he wanted to stop his wandering, where he wanted a real home. He answered all our self-righteousness with ten years of silence, ten years of relocation, and ten years of concessions.

Now, several years later, our home of four is still fine. The roses in front of my second sister's door still bloom every year, the cries of vendors at the market still ring out punctually every morning, the scenery remains the same, the environment remains the same, life remains the same—only the old man who once quietly admired the gentle scenery and longed for stability is gone forever.

I took the small stool my father always carried with him back to my own home and placed it on the balcony, where I often sit down and quietly sit for a while. The silent bench bears witness to all the loneliness, grievances, and unspoken hopes of my father during his last ten years. It also records for him the regrets and debts we, his children, can never make up for. We won dignity and fairness, but we forever lost the tenderness and belonging that we should have given our father.