CHAPTER 135

2026-03-07

After being separated for twenty months, Father and mother were reunited at last in the nursing home—though not very harmoniously.

My father was nearly three years older than my mother. Bearing the expectations and burdens of their respective families, the two of them joined together and supported each other for seventy years. They lived past ninety and raised six sons, all of whom eventually established families of their own. We witnessed our parents’ hard work, mutual support, and occasional resentments. Because of deficiencies in his upbringing, Father developed a personality that was not easy to get along with. Yet both he and Mother cared for their children with the most sincere and simple hearts. We are deeply grateful that the two of them devoted everything to the family as they walked their journey through life.

Until their later years, they had never imagined living in a nursing home, because both were capable and independent people who had always managed their own lives. We children kept an eye on things but never formed any concrete plan.

In fact, my father had strong self-learning abilities. He was good at both Chinese and English, as well as calligraphy, and he could cook excellent meals. During festivals or when grand uncles came to dine at our home, he would personally go into the kitchen to prepare delicious dishes to honor the elders, and naturally we younger ones benefited as well.

Father managed the finances, while Mother took care of all household affairs. Day after day she prepared meals for her husband and six sons (and a daughter who died from illness before the age of two), especially dinner.

Father was the head of state, responsible for honor, external affairs, and finance. Mother was the chief administrator, responsible for household matters and discipline. Father scolded but never hit; Mother held the rattan cane.

The six sons were spaced sixteen years apart between the eldest and the youngest. Most of us returned home for dinner regularly. Looking back, Mother spent her entire life cooking large pots of food without pause—truly exhausting work.

There was no such thing as a holiday for Mother. I cannot recall seeing her deliberately sit down just to “enjoy life” in leisure.

One of her simple pleasures was listening to the radio. Because there were no Teochew-dialect stations, she was forced to train herself to understand Cantonese. After we got a television, she still listened to Hong Kong Cantonese programs. She loved watching TVB’s Jade Channel, especially the variety show Enjoy Yourself Tonight from 9:30 to 11:10 p.m., as well as the wrestling programs—which I also enjoyed. When my eldest maternal uncle came to visit at noon and happened to catch a wrestling rerun, the brother and sister would watch so intently that they practically ground their teeth in excitement.

Another form of entertainment for her was getting her hair cut, washed, and permed. She could spend a few comfortable hours being served by others, and afterward she would conveniently buy groceries on the way home. If Father came home from work and could not find Mother, he would instantly turn into Judge Bao from the Song Dynasty, his face as dark as charcoal—a big man with a petty temper.

During the memorial speech at Mother’s funeral, I learned for the first time that she often brought my fourth brother with her to the hair salon. I had no memory of this at all—probably because I was too restless as a child. Fortunately my fourth brother was well-behaved; otherwise Mother would have lost her companion during those outings for many years.

With advanced age, decline is inevitable. In their later years, whenever we visited, the dining room often smelled of sour rice. Leftover rice from the previous day would be eaten for several days, and the dishes were simple and repetitive. One Friday when I went to visit at lunchtime, I found Mother locked outside the front door, while a kind neighbor stood nearby watching over her. It turned out that after Father had gone out for a blood test, Mother tried to clear spider webs outside the house. When she stepped out, the door automatically closed. Although it was not locked, she lacked the strength in her thumb to press the latch open, so she had been standing outside for nearly an hour.

Another time, after Father finished his early-morning exercise, he fell at the front door. By the time the blood had dried, half his face was swollen and red. He told no one about it until the afternoon, when my fourth brother came to visit and discovered it, immediately taking him to see a doctor.

When we checked their medicines, the packages were still unopened!

Two weeks before her eighty-seventh birthday, Mother was the first to be admitted to the care home. Father could not bear the loneliness, and six months later he moved—at his own expense—into a private retirement residence. He stayed there for fourteen months. In July of the following year, he was finally approved to move into the same care facility where Mother lived. After being separated for twenty months, the two were reunited at last—though not very harmoniously.

During the admission process, I had reminded the nursing home manager that it would not be suitable for them to live in the same wing. The main reason was that Father tended to interfere in Mother’s affairs—for example, urging her to eat, sometimes even trying to feed her by hand. When he became anxious he would scold people, his voice booming like a bell. What I feared most was that Mother might choke on her food and cause a serious accident.

The nursing home, out of kindness, tried letting them live in the same wing but in separate rooms for a trial period of one quarter. It did not work. From then on Father was not allowed to enter Mother’s room freely and disturb her. Later, however, he grew accustomed to the arrangement. Once he knew and confirmed that Mother lived in the same building and was well cared for, he felt completely at ease. Gradually he let go of all worries—even the people and matters that had troubled him throughout his life—and six months later he passed away peacefully at the age of ninety-three.

This arrangement—living separately but in the same building—was the most humane. During the last sixty-three months of her life, Mother was finally able to enjoy peace and comfort around the clock, making up for what she had missed in the past, with quiet ears and a tranquil mind.

One month after Father’s funeral, Mother suddenly asked me in the Teochew dialect, “Has the old man gone?”

I answered, “Yes.”

Thirteen months later, she too passed away, at the age of ninety-two.