Chapter 1 — The Day They Forgot Me

During the National Day holiday, I filled up both of our cars with gas at the rest stop. By the time I stepped out of the convenience store, the parking lot was completely empty. A family of seven, two vehicles, and yet not a single person remembered that I was still sitting in the passenger seat. I placed thirty-six phone calls. Not one person answered. The very first message I received came from my mother:

Just find your own ride home.

No apology, no explanation, not even a single question mark. I stared at those words for a long time. Then I archived the chat and opened a ridesharing application. Two hours later, the highway had transformed into a massive, gridlocked parking lot, and my phone suddenly erupted with calls. This time, I switched it to silent mode.

Chapter One. October first. I woke up before dawn. The previous evening, my mother had sent a message to the family group chat, announcing that since it was so difficult for everyone to gather together, we would head to Thousand Island Lake for a two-day getaway. She told me to wake up early and check on the vehicles. My father owned two cars, a Buick GL8 and the Volkswagen Passat he usually drove. The GL8 was normally driven by my eldest brother, while the Passat belonged to my father. I did not have a car. To be precise, I did own one—a Toyota Camry I had saved up to buy entirely on my own. But my mother had said:

Why drive so many cars on a trip? It is just a waste of gas money.

She told me to leave my car at home. Fine. At five-thirty in the morning, I was already squatting in the garage, checking the tire pressure, topping off the windshield washer fluid, and loading the luggage into the trunk. Inside my brother’s GL8 sat my sister-in-law’s cosmetic case, my nephew’s child safety seat, and two suitcases belonging to my younger sister, Tran Dao. Two suitcases. We were only going for two days, yet she had brought two suitcases. I neatly arranged every single item. When my brother came down, everything in the car was already organized. He glanced inside without a word, slid into the driver’s seat, and adjusted his position. My sister-in-law walked down carrying the child, offering me a gentle smile:

Xiao Bai, you have worked hard.

In the entire family, she was the only one who ever uttered those words.

We set off at six o’clock. I sat in the back seat of my father’s Passat. Up front, my father drove while my mother occupied the passenger seat. I sat entirely alone in the back, accompanied only by a thermos and a bag of fruit. Yes, I was still the designated keeper of the thermos. Before departure, my mother turned her head to look at me:

Did you bring motion sickness medicine? Your sister gets car sick.

I brought it.

Where is it?

In my backpack.

Take your backpack over to the GL8 in case your sister needs it.

I grabbed my backpack, jogged over to the lead GL8, and handed it to Tran Dao, who was slouching in the back seat. Without even lifting her eyelids, she kept her headphones on, accepted the bag with the back of her hand, and tossed it carelessly to the side. I stood by the car door, my mouth opening to say something before I ultimately swallowed the words in silence. I hurried back to the Passat, got inside, and we hit the road.

An hour and a half into our highway drive, we arrived at the first rest stop. My father announced he needed to use the restroom, pulling the car to a halt. My brother’s GL8 followed right behind us. My mother asked:

How much gas is left?

My father glanced at the gauge:

Half a tank.

Fill it up. There is no telling when we will see another station ahead.

My father reached into his pocket and handed his gas card to me. He did not give it to my eldest brother, nor did he go himself. He handed it straight to me.

Go fill up the tank.

I took the card.

Fill up the GL8 as well, my mother added.

I said okay. The rest of them headed toward the restrooms and shops. I drove the Passat to the fuel pumps and topped it off, then drove the GL8 over and did the exact same thing. Once the fueling was done, I carefully parked both vehicles and walked into the convenience store to buy a bottle of water. The entire process took about fifteen minutes.

As I stepped out of the convenience store, unscrewing the cap of my bottled water, the parking space was completely vacant. Both cars had vanished. I froze in place, the bottle cap slipping from my fingers and rolling far away. My initial reaction was not anger, but sheer bewilderment. Had I misremembered the spot? Clutching my water bottle, I walked a full circle around the rest stop parking lot. A rest stop on the first of October was as crowded as dumplings dropped into a boiling pot, yet I was entirely certain. The dark blue GL8 with its Shanghai license plate. The gray Passat, also bearing a Shanghai license plate. Neither of them was here. Two cars, seven people. They had simply left.

Chapter Two. I pulled out my phone. First, I called my father. The phone rang eight times, unanswered. I called my mother, and it went straight to voicemail. I called my eldest brother; the line rang four times before disconnecting. I called my sister-in-law, who let it ring without answering. I called Tran Dao, and her phone was turned off.

I dialed my father again. Still no answer.

Standing beneath the October sun, my head felt heavy and buzzing. A massive truck roared past, the thick stench of diesel making me cough violently. Refusing to believe it, I ran through the cycle once more. Father, mother, eldest brother, sister-in-law, Tran Dao. Five people, two rounds, ten phone calls in total. Not a single soul picked up.

I began typing messages into the family group chat:

Did everyone leave?

I am still stuck at the rest stop.

Is anyone looking at their phone?

I am calling, but nobody is answering.

The messages sent, but silence met my words. I stared fixedly at the chat interface; right above my texts remained the itinerary my mother had sent yesterday. All six profile pictures were dim and gray, with not a single person online.

I dialed another round. The third round. My father’s phone finally connected, only to be met with a busy tone. He was speaking with someone else. I dialed five times in a row. Every single time, it was still a busy signal.

At that moment, a realization finally dawned on me. It was not that he failed to notice my calls. He was simply conversing with someone else, and my call was simply not important enough for him to interrupt that conversation.

By the twenty-seventh phone call, my hands began to tremble. Not from anger, but from a strange, hollow sensation. It felt much like struggling in deep water for a long time, calling out for rescue over and over, while the people on the shore heard every cry yet none of them believed you were genuinely drowning.

The thirty-sixth phone call. Still no answer.

I put my phone away, found a stone pillar in the shade, and sat down. I watched the endless stream of passing cars and pedestrians. There were families guiding their children, couples walking hand in hand, and small children perched happily on their fathers' shoulders.

I sat there for twelve minutes.

My phone chimed. It was not a phone call, but a WeChat message. From my mother. Exactly seven words:

Figure out your own way back.

I stared at the screen, waiting thirty seconds. Waiting for her to send a follow-up:

Sorry, I forgot about you.

Waiting for her to say:

We are turning around to pick you up.

Waiting for even a simple apologizing emoji.

Nothing.

The chat window remained dead silent. Even the indicator showing that the other party was typing never appeared.

Chapter Three. I locked my phone screen. Sitting against that stone pillar, I cast my mind back across my twenty-eight years of life. When I was very young, I was sent away to live with my maternal grandparents, starting from the age of four all the way until I was ten. Six whole years. In all that time, my mother came to visit me a total of three times. Three times. I remember it with absolute clarity because every single time, I chased after her departing car while weeping uncontrollably.

When I returned home at age ten, the household had expanded by a younger sister. My eldest brother was already in middle school, holding the highest hopes of the entire family. My three-year-old sister was the darling of the house. And I was merely the second child who had just returned from the countryside, someone entirely unaccustomed to city life. Middle school in the dormitories, high school in the dormitories, university in another province. Each year, the number of times I returned home could be counted on a single hand. And each time I returned, my sense of presence was so meager it could barely be registered. At the dinner table, my mother would ask my eldest brother about his work and quiz Tran Dao about her studies. When it came to me, a casual "You're still doing all right, aren't you?" was enough to close the subject.

Over the years, I had never spoken of this to anyone. Speaking of it would be utterly useless anyway. People would only dismiss it with remarks like:

In such a large family, it is normal to occasionally overlook things.

You are simply being too sensitive.

Your parents have a hard time, too.

Yet today, sitting in this remote rest stop in the middle of nowhere, with thirty-six unanswered phone calls and a text message from my mother too lazy to even include a period at the end, I suddenly understood everything.

It was not that they had forgotten. It was that I simply did not matter.

What conditions are required to forget someone? Complete indifference. That was all.

I stood up and unlocked my phone. I stopped making calls. Instead, I opened the ridesharing application, entered my destination as Thousand Island Lake, and waited. A dozen seconds later, a ride appeared. The driver, Chu Jianguo, was in his early forties with short hair, wearing a checkered shirt, and crinkling his eyes into friendly wrinkles when he smiled—a thoroughly honest-looking middle-aged man.

Brother, are you traveling alone?

Just me.

How did you end up stranded by yourself at a rest stop? Car trouble?

I opened the back door, climbed in, and smiled faintly.

I was left behind.

Driver Chu glanced at me through the rearview mirror and pressed no further. As the car merged onto the highway, the radio played traffic updates, the announcer warning of slow-moving traffic ahead. Chu reassured me:

Don't worry, our route doesn't go through that section.

Quiet descended upon the car for a moment. Being a naturally talkative man, Chu couldn't hold back his curiosity:

Brother, did you really mean you were left behind just now? Were you traveling with friends?

Family.

Good grief, Chu’s voice spiked in disbelief. Your own family left you stranded at a rest stop? That is utterly absurd.

I remained silent. Chu pressed on:

So have they figured it out yet? Did they call you back?

I called them over thirty times, and nobody answered. Then my mother sent a text telling me to find my own way back.

Chu fell silent. After a lengthy pause, he murmured:

Brother, if I may speak bluntly, that is not forgetting. That is simply not caring.

I leaned back against the seat, watching the highway guardrails slip past one by one outside the window.

Yeah.

My daughter is four years old, and whenever I go to the restroom, I still have to tell her. For an entire family to just leave a living person behind...

Chu shook his head.

Disgraceful.

I offered no response. It wasn't that I refused to speak; rather, speaking felt entirely meaningless. Complaining about my plight to a complete stranger served no purpose other than making myself look pathetic. Yet Chu’s words hammered themselves firmly into my mind:

That is not forgetting. That is simply not caring.

The car pressed onward. I checked my phone once more. The family group chat still held only that single message, devoid of any additions. No one had asked if I had managed to catch a ride. No one had asked if I was safe. No one had bothered to text a simple line telling me to report in once I arrived.

It seemed that the cruel command to figure out my own way back was the greatest act of charity they were ever willing to bestow upon me.

I turned off my phone screen and closed my eyes, drifting into a forty-minute sleep.

Chapter Four. I was jolted awake by Chu’s exclamation:

Damn it, we are trapped in a traffic jam.

I opened my eyes to a sea of blazing red brake lights ahead. Vehicles formed a dense, unmoving snake as far as the eye could see. Chu veered into the far-left lane, tilting his head to survey the gridlock ahead.