"Gabriel, there is something fundamentally wrong with your mindset. You're becoming increasingly selfish."

I met her accusation head-on. "Mom, did you even investigate their current living situation? Compared to them, we're the ones who qualify as a 'poor household.'"

She scoffed. Waved her hand like I was speaking gibberish. She and Dad had *seen* the young couple's hardships with their own eyes. Why else would they have decided to sponsor them in the first place?

A bitter taste coated my tongue. I didn't have the energy to explain.

"Fine. Keep thinking that way." My voice went flat. "Seems like the truth doesn't matter to you anymore."

She took it as a tantrum. Just Gabriel saying hurtful things to get a rise out of her.

The living room hit me with a wall of tension the moment I stepped back in. Dad sat on the sofa, expression thunderous.

"What did that ungrateful wretch say?" he demanded. "He isn't willing to apologize, is he?"

Uncle Mason stepped between us, palms raised. "You two need to calm down. Houses aren't cheap. Can't the family discuss this rationally first?"

"I am his father!" Dad's roar rattled the windows. "Are you saying I can't even make this kind of decision?"

Mom walked in and repeated my words verbatim—adding extra emphasis to the young couple's *pitiful circumstances*.

Uncle Mason's brow furrowed. "I remember you first sponsored them eight or nine years ago. How long has it been since you actually visited their home?"

Dad slammed his phone down on the coffee table. "Over eight years. You think they struck it rich in that time? When your sister-in-law and I went back then, they were living in a dilapidated single-story shack. Alex's family of five was squeezed into a space barely over two hundred square feet. Maya's situation was marginally better, but not by much."

These were the images burned into their minds.

From nearly a decade ago.

"Exactly," Mom chimed in. "They looked absolutely destitute. If you ask me, we raised an ingrate. If Gabriel won't cooperate, we'll just scrape together the money ourselves and give Alex his share."

The problem was, my parents had long since drained their savings. They had only managed to borrow two hundred thousand from my uncle and a few other relatives.

Mom called me later that week, asking me out to dinner to hand over the money. Aria was with me at the time. When I told her about it, she insisted on coming along. Figured if things went south, she could help smooth things over.

My parents were already waiting in the private room when we arrived. Most of the cold appetizers had been served.

The moment Mom spotted Aria, her demeanor flipped like a switch. Excessive warmth poured out of her. "Aria! We haven't seen you in ages. Are your parents in good health?"

Aria linked arms with her, sat down, engaged in polite small talk. They shifted from household topics to recent gossip. On the surface, it looked harmonious—a happy family dinner.

Under the table, my hands were clenched so tight my knuckles ached. Dad and I sat in stiff, stony silence.

When the hot dishes arrived, Mom started piling food onto Aria's plate. Halfway through the meal, she dropped the bomb.

"Aria, I heard you and Gabriel are planning to get married soon? Is that true?"

"Yes, Mrs. Fox. We're hoping to have the ceremony this year."

Mom glanced at Dad. A flicker of surprise crossed her eyes. She probably hadn't expected us to move this fast.

"Regarding the marital home... Gabriel told you the situation, right?"

Aria nodded. Mom kept her smile plastered on.

"Look, could you two use our place as the marital home for now? If you're not used to living there after the wedding, we can always move out."

My chair scraped loudly against the floor as I stood. I was done.

Aria grabbed my arm, pulled me back down. Her eyes pleaded with me to stay calm. Then she turned to my mother.

"Mrs. Fox, honestly, I don't mind where we live. The main issue is that it's hard to explain to my parents."

"What's hard to explain?" Mom waved her hand dismissively. "It's just a house. Isn't living anywhere the same?"

Dad's indifferent tone sparked something volatile in my chest. Anger. Absurdity. Both swirling together.

"Have you ever cared about our feelings?"

"Have you ever cared about mine or your mother's?" His face darkened.

That sentence snapped the last thread of my patience.

I stood. My voice came out steady. Cold.

"When I was three, you dumped me on Grandpa and Grandma so you wouldn't have to deal with me. Back then, I didn't understand. I thought you were just busy." A bitter laugh escaped me. "It wasn't until I got older that I realized you simply wanted your 'space.'"

"Fine. I can accept that. Grandpa and Grandma treated me well."

I leaned forward, bracing my hands on the table. "When I was ten, do you remember what I wanted for my birthday?"

Silence.

A harsh laugh tore from my throat. "I just wanted you to take one day off to go to the amusement park with me. That wish has never been fulfilled. What's truly ridiculous is that I heard you took those two sponsored students there the very next week."

"At fifteen, you finally took me back in. But you criticized everything I did. Too loud. Too quiet. Too messy. Too *distinct*. You tried to mold me into someone else." I pinned them both with my stare. "Tell me—on what grounds? You were absent for my entire childhood. What gives you the right to judge how I turned out?"

The blood drained from Mom's face. Her mouth opened. No words came.

Under the table, Aria tugged at my sleeve. Signaling me to apologize.

I shook my head.

"This card has two hundred thousand," Mom stammered, pulling a bank card from her purse. "Your dad and I borrowed it over the last two days. Take it. We'll pay you back the rest later."

She tried to shove the card into my hand.

I stepped back.

"I don't want the money anymore." My voice was formal. Final. "From today on, my life has nothing to do with you."

All my life, my only ambition as a farmer was to raise a son who would amount to something.

I never imagined that at the gala celebrating his company's public listing, my presence would be his greatest shame.

When the guests asked who I was, panic flashed in my son's eyes. His composure cracked. He stammered.

"This is… Mr. Lambert. A sanitation worker from my hometown. He watched me grow up. I'm… very grateful to him."

Applause rippled through the crowd. They praised his humility—a CEO who remembered the little people.

But the relatives my son had hired—those leeches he'd brought into the company—looked at me with undisguised mockery.

"Old Lambert really is something," one whispered loud enough for me to hear. "Showing up at a time like this? Is he trying to humiliate Joshua?"

"A dirt-poor farmer should stay in the mud where he belongs," another sneered.

My son couldn't get away from me fast enough.

Standing there in the glitter of the banquet hall, a cold realization settled into my gut. I had raised this boy. Poured my life into him.

And it felt like I had done it all for nothing.

——

I left the celebration early and found the cheapest guesthouse near the railway station.

Twenty bucks a night. The sheets reeked of mildew and stale smoke.

The hard mattress dug into my spine as I stared at the water-stained ceiling. The scene at the banquet played on a loop—a torture I couldn't switch off.

Images of my son flickered through my mind. The toddler who recited poetry at three. The five-year-old who insisted on carrying the foot-washing basin for his mother.

Now, those memories were overlaid by the cold, indifferent figure in the tailored suit.

He never gave me trouble in school. Our mud-brick walls were plastered with his academic certificates. To pay his tuition, I sold every grain of harvest I had.

When that wasn't enough, I sold my blood.

When his mother lay dying, she refused treatment. She hoarded every penny so he could finish his degree.

I remember her gripping my hand—her grip weak, but urgent.

*"Asher, our boy is meant for great things. We have to lift him up. Send him out into the world. When he succeeds, we'll finally enjoy some peace."*

She was gone now.

And I had lost him too.

There was no peace.

A crushing weight pressed against my chest, as if a giant hand were squeezing my heart.

I sat up and fished a cold, hard steamed bun from my cloth bag. Took a bite. Washed it down with tap water.

The dry lump stuck in my throat. I couldn't swallow.

My ancient brick of a phone buzzed, the ringtone harsh in the quiet room.

My son's maternal uncle.

I hesitated, thumb hovering over the button, before finally answering.

His voice oozed a warmth that had never been there before—forced, awkward.

"Asher! How goes it? You made it to the boy's place? Did you see him? The city's bustling, isn't it?"

Questions fired like a machine gun.

My throat tightened. I managed a noncommittal grunt.

Sensing my mood, he shifted tactics. His tone dropped, earnest now. Lecturing.

"Asher, look, I'm not saying you were wrong, but Joshua just called me. He told me about the… situation at the party."

A loud sigh crackled through the speaker.

"You have to understand. It was a massive occasion. Why did you just run over there without a heads-up? Joshua is a CEO now. He manages a huge corporation. Image is everything! You showing up like that… weren't you just making trouble for him?"

A spark of anger ignited in the ashes of my grief.

A father wanting to see his son was *making trouble*?

I stayed silent. Taking my silence for guilt, my uncle pressed harder.

"I know you miss him. I know you want to bask in his glory. But you need to know your place!"

"Look how good things are. Joshua is sensible. He repays kindness. He remembers us poor relatives. Just last month, he made your niece a manager. Do you know what her salary is?"

He quoted a figure, his voice trembling with greed and pride.

"As elders, we need to be considerate. Don't drag him down. If he says you're a sanitation worker, then you're a sanitation worker!"

"Think about it. Standing there in those clothes… if you don't look like a janitor, what do you look like?"

"Listen to your big brother. Don't take it to heart. Buy a ticket and go back to the village. The yellow earth is our root, Asher. Stick to it."

"Kindness?"

I cut him off, my voice a ragged rasp that startled even me.

"You want to talk to me about kindness?"

"When Joshua was ten, he burned with a fever so high he was delirious. I came to your door in the dead of night, begging to borrow fifty bucks to save his life. What did you say?"

My grip on the phone tightened until my knuckles turned white.

"You said a half-grown boy eats his father out of house and home. You said if the fever burned his brain out, it would be a blessing—one less mouth to feed!"

"When his mother was dying, she wanted a decent coffin. I begged you again. You threw a sack of old corn at me and told me to take it as charity. That corn was riddled with weevils!"

The rage I'd suppressed for years erupted, shaking my entire frame.

"Now that my son is somebody, you remember kindness? Your 'kindness' was handing down rags at New Year and grain that pigs wouldn't eat!"

"You cling to him like leeches, sucking his blood, and you think you haven't taken enough? Me? Drag him down?"

My voice cracked.

"I, Asher Lambert, haven't taken a single cent of his money! When I was selling my own blood to keep him in school, where the hell were you?"

Dead silence on the line. I could hear his heavy, furious breathing.

I didn't wait for a retort. I slammed the hang-up button with everything I had.

I slumped against the bedframe, staring out the window at the gray, smog-choked city sky.

Tears carved tracks through the grime on my face.

To them, my decades of back-breaking labor meant nothing compared to the scraps they could beg from my son.

My identity as a father was a stain on his résumé. A sanitation worker was a convenient lie to cover the ugly truth of his origin.

I lay in that guesthouse for two days.

Catatonic.

The hope in my heart sizzled out like charcoal thrown into snow. Only a thin wisp of smoke remained.

But I wasn't ready to accept it. Not yet.

If I went back now, in disgrace, how could I face his mother in the afterlife? I told myself my son was just confused. Cornered by the situation. A momentary lapse.

A father shouldn't hold a grudge against his child.

*Does he think I embarrass him? Fine.*

*Then I won't be his father.*

I thought about his massive office building. They needed security, didn't they?

I was old, but I was sturdy. I could guard a door.

I didn't want his money. Just a meal and a place to stand.

I just wanted… to see him. To know he was safe.

The thought took root like weeds after rain.

I gathered my shattered dignity, put on my best tunic suit—the Zhongshan style I'd saved for special occasions—and walked back to the imposing glass tower.

No cloth bag this time. Empty hands. I forced my hunched back as straight as it would go.

The young security guard was still at the entrance. Recognition flickered across his face, followed by a frown.

"You again?"

I forced a humble smile.

"Comrade, I'm not looking for Mr. Lambert today. I… I'm here to apply for a job. Is the company hiring security? Do you think I could do it?"

He looked at me like I'd told a joke. A snort escaped him.

"Apply? Old man, are you serious? Even our guards need a high school diploma and a physical. Look at you. How old are you?"

He waved his hand like he was shooing a fly.

"Get lost. You're blocking the way."

Heat rushed to my face, but I held my ground.

"I haven't studied much, but I have strength. I'm serious. Look—"

"No! Leave!"

Just as I stood there, paralyzed by shame, the revolving doors spun.

Two figures emerged.

My son. And his cousin—my eldest niece—dressed in flashy, expensive clothes.

They were laughing, heading out for lunch.