Chapter 8 — Dark Corner Outside the Light

"In the 'Echo' series, the article 'The Fifth Chair' received the biggest response. Many readers commented that the article felt like it was written about themselves. I want to ask a somewhat sudden question, is there a silhouette of yourself in that article?" I can feel the camera getting closer. “There is a part.” “Can you share?” I thought for two seconds. "I grew up in a normal family and had a very outstanding older sister. She was the type of child that everyone saw from a young age. But I wasn't." “Can you be more specific about the phrase ‘seen’?” "For example, my family photos will never include me. For example, on the day of the university entrance celebration party, only my sister's name was on the hotel banner. For example, the lucky money given to me by relatives was recorded in my sister's book by the family." The studio was silent for a moment. The host put down the script. “When those things happen, how do you feel?” "At first it was heartbreaking, then I got used to it, then I didn't feel anything anymore. It wasn't that I had let go, but that the feeling itself had degenerated. Like a hand always soaked in cold water, at first it was very cold, then it went numb." “Are you still numb now?” I looked into the lens. "Not anymore. Because I pulled my hand out." The show aired on a Thursday night. I don't watch. Lam Tieu Man watched in the living room. Halfway through, she ran into my room, her eyes red and said, "What you said makes me want to beat someone for you." “Hit who?” “Hit your mother.” “Don't, it's illegal.” She snorted then sat next to my bed, sadly saying: "You deserve to be loved by everyone." I smiled but didn't answer. The third day after the show aired, my private inbox exploded. Mostly words of encouragement and sympathy from strangers. But there is different news. Coming from an account with no profile picture, no name, just sent one sentence: "I really don't know about those lucky money envelopes." It's my sister. I looked at that message for a long time but didn't reply. On Thursday, there was another text message. This time it wasn't sent by you. It's mother. Not on a texting app, but a phone message sent to my new number. She got this number through many people after she found me. The message had only four lines: "Mom, I watched the show. Some of the things you said, some I remember, some I really don't remember. But regardless of whether I remember or not, I didn't do a good job. When you're willing to meet me, I'll wait." I looked at those four lines of text. Read once. Read it one more time. Then lock the screen. No reply. It's not that I don't want to answer. It's that I don't know how to answer. For eighteen years, I have waited countless times, waiting for a caring statement from my mother's initiative. Now the wait is finally over. But it came too late, so late that I learned not to wait. A week later, dad called. I hesitated for five seconds then picked up the phone. There was silence on the other end for three seconds, then a voice I had never heard before. It wasn't an order, it wasn't an overstatement, it wasn't a look that passed over my head. It's the voice that was crushed by something and then tried to put it back together. “Du Van.” He just called my name. Stopped for a long time. "Your mother told me to watch that show. The things you said... the college entrance celebration party, the lucky money, the family photo of the three of you... I all..." He didn't finish. From the phone came a vague, suppressed sound. I couldn't tell if it was a sigh or another sound. "Dad." “It's dad.” “Do you know now that I passed the entrance exam to Zhejiang University?” Silence again. The silence was very long. “I know.” “The admission notice was opened by me in August, the day my parents took me to Beijing.” He did not speak. "That day, dad asked me to help my sister move her luggage. After moving, he told me to lock the door, close the window and turn off the gas stove. After that, my family of three went to the airport. And I sat alone in a hard chair to Hangzhou." Finally there was sound on the other end. Very soft, very broken. It's the sound a man in his fifties makes when trying not to

let me cry. “Dad, I'm sorry.” This is the first time in my life my dad said sorry to me. Having finished speaking, he said one more time: "I'm sorry." I held the phone and leaned against the window. Outside is the night scene of Hangzhou, the lights spread out in patches, very beautiful. "Dad, I don't need your apology. I digested all that on my own." “So what do you need?” “I need you to remember something.” “What?” "My name is Du Van. Not the second child, not the one who listens, not the one who makes everyone feel secure. My name is Du Van." Dad cried on the other end. There was no sound, but I heard his shaky breathing. “I remember.” I hung up. Standing by the window for a long time. Don't cry. My eyes were dry and painful, but I didn't shed a single tear. Not strong. But the tear duct is like the heart, after a long period of drought it has forgotten how to flow. That night, I had a dream.