North Family Letters

A sense of relief at the bedside, half a lifetime of estrangement finally melts away (continued)

With the family's concerted care, the days slowly moved forward. After surviving the most dangerous acute phase, the father's condition finally stabilized completely, and he was finally able to be discharged from the hospital to recuperate at home. However, the doctor repeatedly warned that this serious illness had left sequelae—half of his body was immobile, his hands and feet were weak, his speech was slurred, and his memory was sometimes good and sometimes bad. He would need someone to take care of him closely from now on, and he would need to do rehabilitation training slowly in order to recover little by little.

On the day they moved back home, the six daughters tidied up the house early in the morning. The stepmother had already put a soft cotton pad on the old rattan chair that the father often sat in, she had specially sawn the threshold of the house flat, installed non-slip handrails in the corridor, and even wrapped the corners of the tables that were easy to bump into with soft cloth. The father was carefully helped out of the car by Qiuju and Xiahe. His steps were unsteady, and his left arm hung limply. He wanted to say thank you to his daughters, but he could only utter broken and indistinct syllables. His eyes were full of hesitation and self-blame, as if he had become a burden to his family.

Song Chunyan was the first to see what her father was thinking. She reached out and gently patted his shoulder, her voice steady and gentle: "Dad, it's okay. We'll take care of him slowly from now on. We're here for you, so don't worry about anything." As she spoke, she helped her father sit down in the rattan chair. Her stepmother brought over some warm millet porridge and slowly fed it to him spoonful by spoonful, her movements incredibly gentle. All her previous anxiety was gone, replaced by a feeling of complete peace.

The inconvenience caused by the aftereffects was far greater than the family had anticipated. Father needed a walker to get around, every step was difficult, and he would stumble if he wasn't careful; he couldn't hold the spoon properly with his right hand while eating, often spilling food all over himself; he wanted to confide in his daughters, but couldn't utter a complete sentence for a long time, his eyes welling up with tears; sometimes he would forget things he had just said, and he would occasionally become confused, not recognizing objects in the house. But the past arguments and indifference were gone. The six sisters and their stepmother worked together as one, making their days of caring for their father warm and fulfilling.

As per the previously agreed-upon shifts, the sisters took turns coming, and none of them uttered a single complaint. Song Chunyan put aside most of her work and came early every day to accompany her father for rehabilitation training. She helped him walk slowly step by step in the yard, giving him instructions with each step. When he got tired, she helped him sit down to rest and massaged his sore legs. She stayed with him all day long. Qiuju handed over the small shop to her helper so she could spend more time at home. She prepared soft and easily digestible meals in various ways, mashing the food into a paste and patiently feeding it to her father. Whenever her father spilled food on his clothes, she would smile and wipe it clean with a towel without ever complaining. Xiahe specially researched a lot of rehabilitation care knowledge and accompanied her father for hand rehabilitation training. She held an elastic ball and let him slowly squeeze it. She taught him to speak again and again, patiently repeating the words without ever getting annoyed. The fourth, fifth, and sixth children were responsible for daily bathing, laundry, and house cleaning. They took turns watching over their father at night, afraid that he would fall if he got up at night, or that no one would take care of him if he was thirsty or hungry.

The stepmother was always by her father's side, managing his daily life meticulously. She slept in the room next to his at night, getting up immediately at the slightest sound; she massaged his hands and feet daily to improve blood circulation; and when he was confused or angry, she never got angry, gently coaxing him like a child. The six sisters, seeing this, grew increasingly grateful to their stepmother, their previous estrangement disappearing. They would often talk to her, buy her clothes that fit, and let her rest in turns, truly treating her as part of the family.

Sometimes, when the father was lucid, looking at his daughters surrounding him and his busy stepmother, tears would well up in his cloudy eyes. He would mumble incoherently, "My good daughters," "Thank you for your hard work." Although his words were incoherent, everyone could truly feel his comfort and emotion. Occasionally, he would think of his childhood, holding his daughters' hands, gently stroking their fingers, his eyes full of tenderness. The warmth of his youth and the guilt of his later years had all transformed into the simplest happiness in this daily companionship.

The recovery process was long and arduous. My father's recovery was slow; one side of his body was still somewhat paralyzed, and his speech hadn't fully returned to normal. Yet, he smiled much more often than before his illness. In the courtyard, one could often see this scene: the warm sunlight streaming in, my father sitting in a wicker chair, my stepmother preparing vegetables beside him, and his six daughters either chatting together or helping him with his training. Laughter filled every corner of the small courtyard. The once broken family, through the trials of this illness and its aftereffects, was instead tightly bound together by kinship, becoming more complete and warmer than ever before.

Qiuju would occasionally sit beside her father, holding his unsteady hand, and softly tell him about the shop's recent developments and childhood anecdotes. There was no longer any distance or resentment. Xiahe would share interesting things happening outside with the family, easing the atmosphere at home. The fourth child was no longer torn between resentment and guilt, and a long-lost ease returned to his face. The fifth and sixth children would accompany their father in the sun, telling him stories of everyday life and trying to cheer him up. Looking at the harmonious family, Song Chunyan felt a deep sense of peace. She knew that her father's aftereffects might never fully heal, but the family's hearts were finally completely united, never to be separated again.

Life went on peacefully, without any earth-shattering events, just the companionship and companionship of daily life. Although Father had difficulty moving around and spoke clearly, he had the most peaceful old age of his life, with the heartfelt care of his daughters and a complete and warm family. Those resentments, estrangements, and regrets from half a lifetime had long been completely melted away by family love. This illness brought not only aftereffects, but also a belated reunion and appreciation for the family.

The afternoon sun remained gentle, bathing the courtyard, the father's kind smile, and the family's tightly entwined figures. The once-broken home, through mutual understanding and companionship, had become the warmest place imaginable. Years to come would be filled with the unwavering bond of blood, a belated happiness and peace. The acceptance at the bedside dissolved the lifelong estrangement.

The day we moved into the apartment building with an elevator in town, the sky was clear and the air was crisp. My stepmother put away the old things she had packed one by one, while my father sat in his brand-new wheelchair, looking out at the neat buildings and wide asphalt roads, but his eyes revealed a sense of unfamiliar emptiness.

Having lived most of his life with his roots firmly planted in the rural soil, he now truly understands that the city is not like the countryside, lacking the ingrained warmth and tranquility of everyday life.

In the city, there's none of the lively crowing of roosters and barking of dogs that fill the rural mornings. Opening the window, you can't smell the sweet, earthy scent of grass, nor hear the shouts of villagers calling to each other to head to the fields. Instead, you hear the honking of passing cars, the tightly shut doors of neighbors, and even the wind carries the cold, hard feel of reinforced concrete. My father always liked to lean on the balcony railing and look down. He couldn't see the familiar rice paddies and vegetable gardens, the earthen walls covered in vines, or the old locust tree providing shade at the gate. Only a dense array of windows and hurried passersby. Even the sunlight seemed to lack the relaxed gentleness of the countryside.

The city lacks the slow pace and the hustle and bustle of the countryside. My father, now fully retired, used to be able to squat in the yard in the countryside, even with his frail health, touching the seedlings and feeding the chickens and ducks, his fingertips touching the soil, which brought him peace of mind. But in the city, even going downstairs requires getting used to the flat yet unfamiliar paved streets. Finding a plot of land to grow some vegetables has become a luxury. Without a hoe in his hand and without land beside him, he always feels uneasy. He often sits in a daze, muttering about the fields and the yard back home, and about the batch of vegetables he hadn't had time to harvest before the demolition.

There's no neighborly affection in the city like in the countryside. In the countryside, every household has its gates open, and people can chat over a bowl of rice. If someone is in trouble, neighbors will lend a helping hand. But in the city, you don't even know who lives across the hall. If you meet someone, you might nod at most, and no one will pull you aside to chat about crops or everyday life anymore. My father was always introverted, and after his illness, he became even more shy. Most of the time, he would just sit at home, either watching my stepmother do housework or touching the handle of the old hoe he brought from our hometown, longing for the warmth and closeness of the countryside.

The sisters saw his disappointment and felt his pain deeply. They understood his despondency. The city offered convenience, a clean environment, and better conditions to care for him, but it lacked the rural roots he had cherished all his life. So they decided that whenever they had free time on weekends, they would drive him back to his old village. Even though the old house had been demolished and only a vacant lot remained, they wanted him to step onto the rural soil again, see his familiar neighbors, and hear the sounds of the village.

Every time we returned to the village, my father's eyes would light up. As soon as the car entered the country lanes, he would stare intently out the window at the vast fields, the winding river, and the low old houses, a smile unconsciously playing on his lips. After getting out of the car, his sisters would help him walk slowly along the ridges between the fields. Mud would cling to the soles of his shoes, and the air would carry the fresh scent of crops. Villagers would gather around to greet him, their calls of "Big Brother" and "Uncle" instantly bringing back a sense of familiarity. He would ask, albeit in a daze, about the crops and the neighbors, and even though his speech wasn't fluent, he would still smile broadly.

Qiuju specially set up a small vegetable garden on the balcony of her new home. She bought anti-corrosion wooden flower boxes, filled them with soil, and planted scallions, greens, and cilantro, which her father loved, so that he could touch the soil and find some rural memories even in the city. Song Chunyan invited old neighbors from the countryside to come over from time to time to chat with her father and talk about the latest happenings in the village. Her fourth, fifth, and sixth children brought over some free-range chickens from the countryside and raised them in a corner of the balcony, recreating some of the rural atmosphere. Her stepmother also spent every day with her father, telling him old stories about the countryside and reminiscing about his days in his hometown, slowly soothing his sense of loss.

Father gradually came to understand that the city lacked the earthy fragrance of the countryside, the sounds of chickens and dogs, and the smoke rising from cooking fires. But in the city, he had his beloved daughters, a harmonious and reunited family, his ever-present wife, and a sense of peace that no longer caused him worry. The countryside was his lifelong root, holding his youth and toil, his past regrets and memories; while the city was his final resting place, filled with the company of his family, the belated joy of family reunion, and a home pieced together from scratch.

The afternoon sun shone on the small vegetable garden on the balcony. Father, in his wheelchair, gently tended to the tender green leaves, while stepmother sat beside him preparing vegetables. His sisters returned home one after another from work, the aroma of food filling the air, and laughter echoed throughout the city apartment. He finally found peace. The city might not resemble the countryside, but it offered a warmth of family reunion that the countryside could never provide. Home was where his loved ones were; where his heart found peace, that was where he belonged.

All the hardships accumulated in the countryside, all the heartache caused by separation and estrangement, have been transformed into a simple yet warm companionship in this small home in the city. In the days to come, there is no need to think about working the land; simply staying by the side of loved ones is the best way to spend one's later years.