Chapter 9 — I Don't Need Your Late-Found Affection

At the ticket barrier, I turned to look back one last time. Director Phuong was still standing there. His hair had turned remarkably gray, and his back was no longer as straight as it once was. Yet, when he waved at me, it felt exactly like those days back in my childhood when he took me to sit for my exams. It was a vigorous, slightly clumsy gesture, born of a genuine fear that I might not see him. I waved back. As the bullet train pulled away from the platform, the city beyond the window began to recede into the distance. Suddenly, my phone buzzed. It was an unfamiliar number.

Van Tri, it is Mother. In the future, could you call me on the holidays?

I stared at the message. My heart did not ache, nor did I harbor any resentment. There was only a faint, lingering sense of exhaustion. I typed my reply:

The obligations mandated by law will be fulfilled according to the court’s judgment.

But as for affection, there is none.

After hitting send, I blocked the number. The sunlight from outside the window poured in, landing directly upon my university acceptance letter. The four characters spelling out Beijing University glowed brilliantly. On the day I was crowned the top scorer in the national entrance examinations, the parents I had been separated from for twenty years finally reappeared. They came armed with tears, household registration books, livestreaming contracts, and transfer request forms, desperate to strip away the only thing I had left to my name. But they had arrived far too late. Long ago, I had been cradled and carried away from the gates of the orphanage by someone else. Someone had fed me medicine, cooked me porridge, scoured the stalls for used textbooks, helped me refine my academic goals, and stayed awake through the night just to keep a lamp lit for me. I did not spend my life waiting for parents to fall from the sky. I waited for myself. I waited until I could build a home that I protected with my own two hands.

Many years later, I still return to the orphanage often. Building Number Three has been fitted with a brand-new roof. The small playground is now covered in soft, cushioned tiles. The children drink strawberry milk, leaving white rings of froth like mustaches around their mouths. One of them asked me, "Big sister, is it amazing to be a top scorer?"

I replied, "It is."

"How amazing is it?"

I crouched down, retying the laces of her shoes.

"It is amazing enough that when others try to snatch the path beneath your feet, you can still stand firm."

"It is amazing enough that when no one is there to support you, you can grow your own backbone."

"It is amazing enough that one day, you can turn back and become a shield against the wind for someone else."

The little girl did not quite understand. She hugged her milk carton and beamed at me. I smiled back. The wind whispered through the camphor trees of the orphanage, the leaves rustling in a rhythmic dance. I looked up. In that brief, fleeting moment, I suddenly felt that the little girl left abandoned at these orphanage gates twenty years ago had finally, at long last, stopped crying.