"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.