Chapter 29 — At the end of the week when I was fired, I made the 3.9 billion contract into waste paper

Tham Nghien stood in the living room holding a stack of documents. His mother glared at him so much that he had to quietly put all the documents in his bag. I stood by the window looking at that scene, suddenly feeling very strange. It's not because this place is unfamiliar. It's because it's been so long since I really stood in this house as a family member. Before, every time I returned, I was always in a hurry. Eat a meal, say a few words, then use work as an excuse to leave. I'm afraid of staying too long. Afraid to hear my father talk about Thinh Ninh. I'm afraid my mother will ask me if I'm tired. Afraid of wavering myself. But today, when I saw my father being helped into the living room, his face still a little pale, I suddenly realized that many of the things I had stubbornly avoided were actually not that scary. What's scarier is that one day, when I wanted to face it, there was no time left. My father sat down on the sofa. As soon as he received the cup of warm water that my mother brought, he frowned and said:

“Don't look at me like I'm seriously ill.”

Mother immediately replied:

“If you are not the patient, then who is?”

Tham Nghien sat down next to him and very seriously added:

"The doctor said, dad, don't be angry."

Father glanced at him.

“So you say a few less words.”

I couldn't help but laugh. Father turned to look at me. His eyes stopped for a moment, then quickly moved away. It's like I'm still not used to me sitting in the house for so long. After lunch, mother forced father to go upstairs to rest. But in less than half an hour, I saw the office door on the second floor slightly open. I stood at the end of the hallway, looking at the light shining from inside, both amused and reluctant. This person really doesn't know how to listen. I walked over and knocked on the door. There was silence inside for two seconds. Then my father's voice rang out: I pushed the door open and walked in. Dad is sitting behind the desk. In front of him were not company documents, but a black wooden box. Seeing me looking at the box, he coughed softly.

“I didn't see the documents.”

“You haven't said anything yet.”

“Your eyes said it.”

I pulled out a chair and sat down across from him.

“Dad just got out of the hospital.”

“The doctor told me to rest.”

“I know too.”

“So why are you still in the office?”

My father was silent for a few seconds. Then say:

“There's something I want to give you.”

I looked at the wooden box. My heart suddenly tightened a bit. He did not immediately open the box. Instead, he looked at me for a long time.

“Ninning.”

I stopped. It's been a long time since dad called me that. I replied softly: He leaned back in his chair. His eyes were no longer as sharp as in the meeting room, nor as stern as in my memories. Maybe because the illness just recovered. Maybe because of age. At this time, he is more like a normal father than president Thinh Ninh.

“For these seven years, do you blame me?”

I bowed my head. Fingers unconsciously stroked the edge of the chair. This question, if asked a few years ago, I probably would have answered very quickly. I blame you for not understanding me. I blame you for always wanting to arrange the path for me. Blame you for not keeping me. Also blame him for actually letting me leave. But now, when I learned that he withdrew capital from Hoa Nhac because he did not want me to live in the shadow of my family, when I learned that he silently saved every photo, every article, every milestone of mine, that answer suddenly became too simple and too shallow. I was silent for a long time. Then said:

“There was before.”

My father nodded.

“Not so sure now.”

He looked I. I raised my head to face him.

“I just don't understand.”

“Don't understand what?”

“Why didn't you ever keep me?”

This question is still asked in the end. It has been in my heart for seven years. The year I left home, I waited for my father to call me back. If you just call me, maybe I will stop walking. But he didn't call. He just stood at the study door watching me carry my suitcase away. At that time I felt very heartbroken. It's so heartbreaking that the faster I go, the faster I go. My father looked down at the wooden box on the table. A long time later he said:

“Because dad wants you to become Tham Nhuoc Ninh.”

"It's not the Tham family."

My throat constricted. He continued:

“You have been very strong since you were little.”

“I don't like people saying I rely on my family.”

"I don't like people giving me up because my last name is Tham."

“I want to win myself.”

I looked at him.

“You know, but still let me suffer?”

My father laughed softly.

“Isn't Dad heartbroken?”

"Heartbreaking."

He replied very quickly. So fast that I was a little stunned.

“But being heartbroken doesn't mean you have to take your child back.”

“There are some roads that if Dad blocked them all for me, I would never know if I could go through them.”

"There are hardships that if Dad endured them all for me, I would never know how strong I am."

I looked at the man in front of me. Suddenly I couldn't say anything. My father opened the wooden box. Inside is not stock. Not a seal. Not an important document. It's an old bank card. Dark blue. Card corners are slightly worn. I looked at that card, memories from seven years ago immediately appeared. The day I left home, my father gave me a card.

“There's not much money inside, enough for me to live in difficult times.”

Then I returned it.

“I don't need it.”

I clearly remember his face at that time being very unsightly. But he didn't force me to accept it. Then I pulled my suitcase and left. From then on, I always assumed that card had been thrown away.