Chapter 11 — The day I disappeared, they realized their mistake

To Hao's expression changed. He bent down and pulled out an old yellow envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket—the folds were tight, as if it had been opened and looked at over and over again. He placed it on my desk. I'm in no hurry to take it. I stared at that envelope for five seconds. Postmark. The day was nine years ago. Recipient: To Niem. I raised my hand. The envelope was opened—opened by mother. Inside is the admission notice. Red background, yellow letters. System one in the province. Faculty of Languages and Literature. My name is neatly printed on it. As if waiting for me to receive it. Waited for nine years. My fingers slid across the text. The paper has turned yellow, the corners are slightly bent, but the writing is still clear. Like a promise that was never sent.

"Nim Niem..." To Hao's voice was very low, "I didn't know at that time. If I knew, I wouldn't..."

“No what?” I put down the newspaper, looked at him, "don't let mom hide it? Or don't spend my tuition money?"

He can't speak anymore.

“Su Hao, even if you don't know about the notice—at 180,000 yuan, do you know that it's my money?”

He nodded.

“Do you feel guilty?”

"How long will I feel guilty? The day I get the money? Or the day I spend it all? Or the day I can't find me?"

He was silent. Because the answer is too hard to hear. It's—the day I couldn't be found. Before that, he had never seen it wrong to take money from his sister. The office was silent for a long time. The sound of the air conditioner running quietly. To Hao suddenly stood up. He did not kneel—but bent over.

"Nien Niem. I'm sorry."

Voice choked in throat.

"It's not because I'm short of money that I'm sorry. It's true... over the past three years, raising Trang Trang alone, I now understand - before you sent money home every month, how did you live."

I looked at the bowed back. The old blue jacket was wrinkled. Three years ago he was wearing custom-made shirts and watches as if by accident—all with my money. Now I don't even have a decent shirt. I don't feel gloating. Honestly—no. Just feel tired. Tired to the bone.

“Stand up.”

He looked up, eyes red.

“I will return.”

He raised his head in surprise.

"But not for you. Nor for 200,000 yuan."

I picked up the newspaper and put it back in the envelope.

“It's because there's a debt, I have to figure it out with her myself.”

To Hao stood still, not knowing what to say. I stood up, grabbed my coat.

"Let's go. I booked a ticket. Let's go home together."

He followed me out. Passing by the secretary counter, she stood up:

“President To, this afternoon you still—”

We got into the elevator. As the ladder went down, he said very softly:

“Nien Niem, you have really changed.”

I don't turn around.

"It's not that I changed. It's that I... found myself again."

Elevator opens. Sunlight poured in. I walked out. The high-speed train to the hometown takes two and a half hours. To Hao sat next to him, the whole journey was almost silent. Occasionally he secretly glanced at me, then quickly turned away. I looked out the window. The field receded behind. High buildings become low houses, low houses become fields, fields become ponds and curved bridges. Closer and closer. I thought I would be stressed. But no. Three years ago when I left, I was worried about how I would live. Not now. I know I can live. And live very well.

"Nien Niem..." To Hao spoke up, cautiously, "I told you and the rest of the family in advance. They... are all coming."

“Uncle, aunt, cousin…” he hesitated, “everyone wants to see you.”

I said nothing. But I understand—that's not it must "want to meet". He is setting up a “yard”. Thinking that the more people there are, the more difficult it will be for me to undo the old story. He doesn't understand me. The To Niem of three years ago would be shy. The current To Niem—no. The town is still the same. The main street remains the same. The wonton shop changed its sign, but the greasy smell remained the same. Passing by the China Mobile store, I glanced at it. Three years ago, I stood there cutting my old SIM in half. To Hao called a taxi to go to the hospital. The district hospital corridor is still light green, the smell of disinfectant is so strong that it stings the nose. Fourth floor. Hepatobiliary extravasation. Room 403. When To Hao pushed the door, I stood behind. And I saw my mother. She lay on the bed next to the window.