My father was 50 years older than me. When I was born, he was overjoyed — he lit two long strings of firecrackers, hosted a ten-table banquet, and finally opened a bottle of expensive wine he’d been saving for two years but never had the heart to drink.
When I turned eight, he started taking me to learn the erhu, a traditional Chinese string instrument. The activity center where I took lessons was an hour away by bicycle. He would ride me there after school, then go back home, and return at 9 p.m. to pick me up. By the time we got home, it was already past 10. I hadn’t eaten or done my homework yet, so I had to keep going late into the night.
So my father bought a motorcycle — at his age — so that I could get to bed before 11.
My mother doubted him. “You’re not young anymore. Can you even learn how to ride?” she asked. But my father clenched his fists and flexed his sagging biceps proudly. “Mu Guiying led troops into battle at 53! I’m a grown man — how could I be defeated by a little motorcycle?” I couldn’t help but stifle my laughter as I watched his loose skin jiggle with each pose.
He kept working so I wouldn’t be ashamed of him
When I was 10, my father retired at the age of 60. But on the very next day, he found a busy street and set up a humble shoe-repair stand. His prices were low, and his work was excellent — so good that customer demand kept him too busy to even stop to eat.
Old coworkers would pass by and tease him. “Old Huang, your pension isn’t enough? You’re still doing this at your age? When did you even learn to fix shoes?” My father would laugh heartily as he stitched a pair of shoes on his lap. “If I sit around doing nothing at this age, I’ll get sick from boredom!”
Looking at the wrinkles etched into his weathered face, I suddenly felt a pang of shame.
When I was in my final year of high school, he insisted on renting a place near campus so he could accompany me during my studies. He even moved his entire shoe-repair stand nearby. While I was in class, he cooked. When I got home, he rushed out to work.
He timed meals perfectly so I always had hot food waiting for me — but that meant he often worked on an empty stomach, with cold leftovers awaiting him later.
One day, as I helped him pack up the stand, a middle-aged woman said to him: “Your grandson is already so big! Why are you still working so hard? Let your son take care of you.”
I flushed with embarrassment and snapped at him: “Don’t do this anymore. We’re not so poor that we can’t put food on the table!”
He gave me a dark look. “I’m still young. I can still earn!” he said angrily. He was 68 at the time, and his once-straight back had already begun to stoop.
He insisted on staying strong for my sake
When I went off to college, we rarely saw each other. Our only connection was a thin phone line. He always said the same thing: “Buy what you need — don’t hold back. I’m still young. I can support you.”
After graduation, I stayed in the big city. Life became busy. I called home less and less. But whenever I did, he still repeated those familiar lines: “Everything’s good at home. I’m still young — don’t worry about us. Just focus on your work.”
And I didn’t worry. I accepted my parents’ help with rent, as well as with dating and buying a home — without a second thought.
But no one can stay young forever
My father was nearly 80 when I got the call from my mother. That’s when I found out just how much I didn’t know.
He had collapsed from a cerebral hemorrhage — brought on by long-term hypertension. He had been taking medication for years, but still worked every day at the shoe stand. That day, the midday sun was blazing. Even young people stayed indoors. But he, an elderly man nearing 80, stayed out.
When I saw him in the hospital, my heart shattered. The man who had once seemed larger than life now looked like a frail leaf — shrunken, with sunken eyes, sharp cheekbones, and hair as white as cotton.
Just a week ago, over the phone, he’d still been saying: “I’m young…”
When he saw me, he tried to sit up, to smile, to show his strength again. He opened his dry, cracked mouth, but could only whisper: “I never dared to grow old. I was afraid that if I got old, you wouldn’t have a father to help you… to love you. But I got old anyway.”
A father’s love, hidden behind stubborn pride
All these years, my father had been forcing himself to stay “young” — pushing his body to earn more money, to give me more support, more love, more confidence — so that I’d never feel ashamed of having an old father.
But I never understood his intentions. In fact, sometimes, I felt annoyed when he bragged about how young he still was.
Now, standing by his hospital bed, seeing the toll time has taken on him, I couldn’t hold back the tears any longer.
Translated by Patty Zhang
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