North Family Letters

Father's last birthday

My father's birthday finally arrived quietly in the hospital room filled with the smell of disinfectant.

There were no prior preparations, no boisterous celebrations from relatives and friends, and even a loud blessing seemed impossible. The sisters huddled in a corner of the corridor outside the hospital room, their eyes red and their voices hushed as they discussed the matter, their fingers clenched so tightly they turned white, before finally deciding on this extremely simple birthday ceremony. During these agonizing days, their father had been ravaged by illness, his once robust body now nothing but skin and bones. He was constantly in a coma, occasionally managing to open his eyelids with difficulty, his gaze unfocused, never possessing its former gentleness. He relied entirely on an oxygen tube to breathe, unable to even swallow a drop of liquid food. Every weak breath tugged at their daughters' hearts. They all carried the same unspoken pain: this was probably their father's last birthday.

As dawn broke and the morning mist still lingered, the eldest sister, Song Chunyan, rushed over carrying a heavy package, clutching a tiny cream cake. She hadn't dared choose a larger one, opting for the smallest one possible, fearing a large cake would make the hospital room seem even more desolate, that it would only upset her father, and that the carefully prepared food would go to waste. The cake was adorned with only a single thin number candle, a find she had painstakingly searched through several nearby shops. There were no elaborate decorations, no fancy words, only the daughters' simplest wish: a simple wish for their father to suffer less and to be safe. The third sister, Song Qiuling, brought a thermos containing millet porridge she had simmered for half the night. Cooked to perfection, the rice was soft and fluffy, melting in the mouth—her father's favorite flavor when he was healthy. She always thought that perhaps this familiar warmth would give him a little more strength. Fourth Sister Song Dongxue carefully wiped the cold bedside table with a warm towel, then placed a small bunch of daisies she had secretly picked from the roadside on it. The tender yellow petals, topped with glistening dewdrops, finally brought a faint but vibrant touch of life to the stark white walls and silver-gray medical equipment, adding a touch of human warmth to the oppressive ward. Xiaoman and Xiaoya squatted by the bed, gently smoothing out their father's wrinkled hospital gown, and using a warm, damp towel to wipe his haggard face and thin neck, their movements as gentle as if they were afraid to touch a fragile treasure, lest the slightest sound disturb their sleeping father.

Song Xiahe sat quietly by the hospital bed, her hands tightly gripping her father's withered, cold hands. She repeatedly stroked the protruding knuckles on the back of his hand, the pain mirroring the pain in her heart. From the first light of dawn, she leaned close to her father's ear, softly calling his name, her voice as gentle as a spring breeze, yet trembling uncontrollably: "Dad, wake up. Today is your birthday. Your daughters are all here with you."

One call, two calls, ten calls… She called for an unknown amount of time, until her voice became slightly hoarse, before her father's eyelids finally trembled slightly. As if using all his strength, he slowly opened his eyes. Those eyes, clouded by illness for so long, at this moment, surprisingly revealed a faint glimmer of light. He laboriously moved his eyes, slowly scanning his six daughters surrounding the bedside. His lips moved slightly, and a barely audible breath escaped his throat, so faint that it was indistinct, yet one could clearly feel the deep concern hidden within them.

"Dad, you're awake! Happy birthday!" The eldest sister was the first to break down, her eyes instantly reddening, her voice choked with suppressed sobs. She carefully placed the small cake on the bedside table and gently lit the only candle. The faint candlelight illuminated the dimly lit hospital room, its warm yellow glow gently enveloping her father's pale face, finally dispelling some of his sickly appearance. It also made the tears well up in the sisters' eyes, almost rolling down their cheeks.

There were no cheerful birthday songs, no lively laughter; the large hospital room was eerily quiet, save for the regular beeping of the monitors and the soft crackling of the burning candles, weaving together a heartbreaking birthday melody. The sisters quietly surrounded the bedside, none daring to breathe loudly or utter a word, simply gazing at their father, at this old man who had toiled his entire life. He had been a man of few words his entire life, relying on his rough hands, working tirelessly from dawn till dusk to raise his six daughters, providing for their education, watching them grow up and start their own families, while he himself lived frugally, never enjoying a single day of peace or comfort.

The father's gaze remained fixed on the flickering candlelight, lingering there for a long time. A single, cloudy tear slowly welled up in the corner of his eye, sliding down the deep wrinkles around his eye and soaking the pillowcase at his temple. He seemed to be using all his strength to raise his hand, to touch the warm candlelight, to touch the daughters he had loved all his life, but his arm only lifted slightly before it gave way, falling limply to his sides. Only a muffled sound remained in his throat, a sound that, upon closer listening, revealed a mixture of relief, reluctance, and an overwhelming longing for this world and for his daughters.

"Dad, we know you're hurting. Just blow out this candle and make a wish: in the next life, let's be family again, and you can still be our father. We'll take good care of you." Song Xiahe couldn't hold back any longer, and large tears fell onto her father's cold hands, the hot tears spreading into a wet patch. She bent down, gently supporting her father's head, and slowly moved closer to the cake, giving him a little support.

The father slightly opened his mouth, his chest rising and falling gently, and with his last bit of strength, he exhaled a breath so faint it was almost invisible. The candle flame flickered gently, struggled a few times, and finally slowly went out, leaving only a wisp of smoke that drifted slowly through the hospital room.

That gentle breath seemed to have drained all of the father's life force. His eyelids slowly drooped, and he fell back into a deep sleep. But the hand that had been holding Song Xiahe's hand was still slightly tightening, his knuckles gripping tightly, as if he couldn't bear to let go, as if he wanted to hold onto the last bit of his concern in his palm.

The sisters huddled around the bed, silently shedding tears. They picked up a knife and cut the cake, but none of them could eat a single bite. The sweet cream clung to their fingertips, and when they put it in their mouths, it was filled with an unyielding bitterness. The salty tears mingled with the sweetness, spreading across their tongues, becoming the most unforgettable taste of their lives. They stayed by their father's side as he slept, speaking softly about everyday things, reminiscing about their childhood: how their father used to carry young Xiaoya to the market, spending all the money he had on her favorite candy; how their father stayed up all night mending Chunyan's torn schoolbag, his stitches clumsy yet exceptionally sturdy; how on the day his daughters got married, their father stood at the door, offering his blessings, but secretly wiping away tears behind his back, his heart filled with reluctance and worry.

We all held onto a sliver of hope, wishing that this simple birthday would bring a little joy to our ailing father, hoping he would miraculously recover, even if it was just to drink one more sip of porridge or open his eyes to look at us a little longer. But none of us could have predicted that this silent birthday would truly be our final farewell.

Just three days after her birthday, in the suffocating silence of the early morning, the regular beeping of the monitor suddenly turned into a piercing siren, shattering the stillness of the night. The father's hand, which had been tightly holding his daughters' hands, finally loosened and fell limply to his side. Those eyes, always weary yet forever filled with loving kindness, never opened again, never looked at his beloved daughters again.

That birthday celebration in the hospital ward was devoid of songs and laughter, filled only with tears, dim candlelight, and endless sorrow. It became a final, indelible memory, forever etched in the hearts of the six daughters. Their hardworking, taciturn father, who hid all his love in his actions, ultimately left them forever after this hastily observed birthday. He took away the warmest comfort in the world, leaving his six daughters with endless longing and a debt they could never repay.

From now on, on this day every year, what I remember will no longer be the joy of my birthday, but the faint candlelight in the ward and my father's reluctant eyes at the end. My longing is like a river, but there is nowhere to put it.