North Family Letters

My father's condition is getting worse day by day.

After that argument, the sisters shifted their blame less, but an awkwardness remained. However, no one could stop their father's condition from worsening day by day.

At first, he could occasionally regain consciousness, opening his eyes to look at his daughters gathered around the bed, uttering a few indistinct syllables. Even if he couldn't recognize all the people, he knew they were his children beside him. But after only half a month, his conscious moments became shorter and shorter. Most of the time, he was drowsy with his eyes closed, his breathing becoming light and shallow, like a thread that might break at any moment.

Eating became the hardest thing. He used to be able to barely drink half a bowl of thin porridge, but later he didn't even have the strength to swallow. Most of the liquid food he was fed would spill from the corners of his mouth, soaking his collar. Song Xiahe could only hold a cotton swab, dipping it in warm water little by little to moisten his chapped lips. Watching her father's thin chin twitch slightly, her heart ached as if it were being cut by a knife. She quit her job in another city and stayed by his side in the ward, taking on all the heavy work such as feeding him, wiping him down, and turning him over. She never complained to her sisters again, but the bloodshot in her eyes grew thicker day by day.

My father's health completely collapsed. His muscles atrophied rapidly, and his already thin body was now just skin and bones. His arms and legs were frighteningly thin, cold and stiff to the touch. Due to prolonged bed rest, he developed pressure sores on his back and waist. The reddened skin festered with shallow wounds. Every time he turned over, he would tremble in pain, letting out soft groans, his brows furrowed, but he didn't even have the strength to lift his hand to struggle. His sisters felt sorry for him and took turns buying ointment, carefully applying it. But no matter how carefully they cared for him, the pressure sores continued to worsen, emitting a faint odor that mingled with the smell of medicine in the ward, making it hard to breathe.

When he was delirious, he would mutter to himself, repeating the same few phrases over and over: "It's okay, I'm not a burden..." "Don't make a fuss, you're all fine..." His voice was as soft as the wind, easily dissipated, yet it brought tears to the eyes of the sisters who had been blaming each other just days before. The eldest sister, Song Chunyan, entrusted her grandson to her in-laws and stayed at the hospital every day, doing laundry and cooking without leaving his side; the third sister, Song Qiuling, closed the supermarket for half a day and would bring over nutritious soup whenever she had a spare moment; the fourth sister, Song Dongxue, quit her odd job far away and found a short-term job nearby, which could be taken over morning and evening; even the youngest, Xiaoman and Xiaoya, had learned to change diapers and wipe their bodies skillfully, no longer feeling helpless.

Even with everyone's best efforts, they couldn't hold onto their father's fading life. His appetite dwindled, and eventually he could barely swallow water. His heart rate on the monitor fluctuated wildly, his face remained deathly pale, and his lips turned bluish-purple. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, he would suddenly open his eyes, staring blankly at the ceiling, his cloudy eyes devoid of any spirit, filled only with endless exhaustion and bewilderment.

Song Xiahe held her father's cold hand all night, not daring to close her eyes. She could clearly feel the temperature of his palm gradually decreasing and his pulse becoming weaker and weaker. She gently stroked her father's calloused palms. Those hands had once supported the whole family and raised six daughters to adulthood, but now they could only lie helplessly on the hospital bed, unable to even hold her fingers tightly.

The lights in the ward were always dim. The sisters stopped arguing and making excuses. They just quietly stayed by the bedside, watching their father grow weaker day by day. They all knew in their hearts that the father who had once sheltered them from the wind and rain was slowly fading away.

My father's condition worsened day by day, like a candle burning out, its light growing weaker and weaker until only a faint flame remained, flickering precariously in the wind, gripping the hearts of the whole family. My father's last birthday.

My father's birthday arrived quietly in the hospital ward.

No one dared to make a big fuss about it; the sisters simply huddled together in private, their eyes red, and finalized the simplest arrangements. During this time, their father had become emaciated, spending most of his days in a coma. When he occasionally opened his eyes, his gaze was unfocused and unfocused. He relied on oxygen to breathe, and it was difficult for him to even take a few bites of liquid food. Everyone knew in their hearts that this might be the last birthday of their father's life.

As dawn broke, the eldest sister, Song Chunyan, arrived carrying several bags and a small cream cake in her hand. She hadn't dared to buy a large one, choosing only the smallest one, afraid that it would upset their father and that it would be a waste if he couldn't finish it. A single number candle adorned the cake, a find she had made after searching several stores, symbolizing simplicity and peace. The third sister, Song Qiuling, brought millet porridge that she had simmered overnight, cooked until soft and creamy—father's favorite flavor. The fourth sister, Song Dongxue, carefully wiped the bedside table clean and placed a small bunch of daisies picked from the roadside; their pale yellow petals added a touch of life to the stark white hospital room. Xiaoman and Xiaoya gently straightened their father's wrinkled hospital gown and, with a warm, damp towel, carefully wiped away the weariness from his face, careful not to disturb his deep sleep.

Song Xiahe sat by the bedside, holding her father's withered and cold hand tightly. Her fingertips repeatedly stroked the protruding knuckles on the back of his hand. She had been calling his name softly since dawn, her voice gentle yet trembling: "Dad, wake up. Today is your birthday. Your daughters are all here to celebrate with you."

After calling for who knows how long, the father's eyelids finally twitched slightly, and he slowly opened his eyes. His eyes, which had been cloudy for so long, now had a rare glimmer of light. He laboriously swept over his six daughters who were gathered around the bed, and his lips moved slightly, emitting almost inaudible breaths.

"Dad, you're awake! Happy birthday!" The eldest sister's eyes reddened first, her voice choked with sobs. She gently placed the small cake on the bedside table and carefully lit the candle. The dim candlelight illuminated the ward, giving her father's pale face a touch of warmth, and also making the tears well up in the sisters' eyes.

There was no birthday song, no lively blessings. The ward was quiet, save for the regular beeping of the monitor and the soft crackling of the burning candles. The sisters gathered around the bedside, none of them daring to speak loudly, just quietly watching their father, this old man who had toiled his whole life, raising his six daughters, yet never enjoying a single day of peace.

The father's gaze lingered on the candlelight for a long time, a single, cloudy tear slowly welling up in the corner of his eye, sliding down the wrinkles around his eye and into the pillow beside his temple. He seemed to want to raise his hand, to touch the candlelight, to touch his daughters beside him, but his arm only lifted slightly before falling limply to his side, leaving only a muffled sound in his throat, as if expressing both relief and reluctance.

"Dad, we know you're upset. Just blow out the candles and make a wish that we can be family again in the next life." Song Xiahe couldn't hold back any longer, and large tears fell onto her father's hand. She bent down, gently held her father's head, and leaned close to the cake.

The father opened his mouth slightly, and with all his might, exhaled a weak breath. The candle flame flickered and slowly went out.

That one movement seemed to have exhausted all his strength. His father's eyelids slowly drooped, and he fell back into a deep sleep, only his grip on Song Xiahe's hand tightened slightly, as if it were his last concern.

The sisters gathered around the bed, silently shedding tears. They cut the cake, but no one could eat a bite; the sweet cream tasted bitter. They stayed by their father's side as he slept, softly talking about everyday things, about their childhood, about how he used to carry Xiaoya to the market, about how he sewed Chunyan's schoolbag, about how he watched his daughters get married, how he didn't say it but felt a deep reluctance in his heart.

They all looked forward to this birthday, hoping it would bring some joy to their father and that he would get better. But none of them expected that it would be his last birthday.

Just three days after their birthdays, in the quiet of the early morning, the beeping of the monitor suddenly turned into a piercing blare. The father, who had been holding his daughters' hands, finally let go, and his eyes, which always held a mixture of weariness and love, never opened again.

That birthday in the hospital ward, filled only with tears and no songs, became the final memory etched in the sisters' hearts, forever marked by pain. Their father, who had toiled his entire life and was a man of few words, ultimately left them forever after that birthday, leaving his six daughters with only endless longing and an unpayable debt of gratitude.