An Awakening at the Bedside
Outside the window, the phoenix tree leaves were swept by the autumn wind, hitting the glass one after another with a faint tap sound before drifting down lightly, just like my heart, suspended and restless in this moment.
The bus stop announcement came on, saying there were three stops left before the village entrance of my hometown. I absentmindedly touched my phone in my pocket; the screen was cold, and I didn't even have the courage to light it up and send Mom a message saying, "I'm almost there."
The last time I went home was half a year ago, during this same deepening autumn season.
That day, I purposely left work half an hour early, carrying the Mid-Autumn gift box the company had given me — a box of mooncakes beautifully wrapped but bland in taste, along with two vacuum-sealed packs of marinated duck. After squeezing through two hours of crowded buses, I finally made it to the village entrance.
The moment I stepped through the gate, Mom came out of the kitchen to meet me. Flour was still smeared on her apron, and without even putting down the rag in her hand, she grabbed the handle of the gift box I was carrying.
Her first words were, "Simon, have you gotten a raise since you came back? Mark next door — he's your age — I heard he got a two-thousand raise last month, and even bought his mom a gold bracelet."
I froze for a moment, the gift box in my hand suddenly feeling much heavier.
Dad sat in the old wicker chair in the main room—the very one he'd woven himself back when I was in elementary school—and the armrests were now worn smooth and shiny.
He held a dry tobacco pipe in his hand—the tobacco unlit—absently tracing the carved patterns on it.
He said nothing, but his gaze stayed on me, filled with expectation, worry, and a barely noticeable urgency that was even harder to endure than Mom's blunt questioning.
I muttered vaguely, lowering my head and kicking a pebble at my feet. "Still the same, the company's performance this year is just average," I said.
The smile on Mom's face vanished instantly, the corners of her mouth twitching. She didn't say another word.
As she turned into the kitchen, the apron strings snapped against the doorframe with a sharp 'pop'—like a slap across my face, stinging hot.
This time, I wasn't going home for the holidays—it was because Dad's old illness had flared up.
Last Saturday night, I was in front of my computer, revising the Project proposal. The screen was filled with dense text and charts, making my eyes ache. The coffee beside me had gone cold, a layer of unmelted sugar settled at the bottom of the cup.
Suddenly, my mobile phone started vibrating wildly on the desk, the flashing word "Mom" tightening something in my chest.
I quickly answered, and before I could say a word, I heard Mom's voice trembling with tears through the receiver, broken and uneven: "Simon, your dad... he just started coughing and couldn't catch his breath, his face turned purple, the ambulance just took him away, you have to come back quickly, I am... alone... scared."
The mouse slipped from my hand, hitting the desk with a soft thud and rolling to the edge of the table leg. My mind went completely blank, leaving only Mom's suppressed sobs and the roaring wind from the other end of the line ringing in my ears.
I opened my mouth but couldn't get out a full sentence, only repeating over and over, "Okay, Mom, I'll come back right away. I'm buying the ticket now."
After hanging up, I realized my hands were shaking, and even bending down to pick up the mouse felt stiff.
I opened the ticket app, my finger sliding across the screen for what felt like forever before I found a ticket home. There were still seats on the last night bus. Without checking the time or the seat, I just tapped "Pay Now."
When the payment confirmation popped up, I finally let out a breath and slumped back in my chair, tears quietly streaming down my face.
The next day, when I was about to request leave, I stood outside the leader's office door and took three deep breaths before daring to knock.
The leader was typing on his computer. Hearing the knock, he said "Come in" without looking up.
I walked up to his desk, clutching the hem of my shirt, and said softly, "Mr. Clark, I need to request leave. My dad is in the hospital, and I have to go back to take care of him."
Only then did the leader stop typing, lift his head with a frown, and look at me with clear frustration. "Simon, what's going on? This project's final plan is due next week, and the client's pushing hard. If you leave now, how will the progress move forward? Everyone else on the team has their own tasks; no one can cover for you."
I kept my head down, pressing my fingers hard against the wooden grain of the table's edge. I had traced that grain countless times before, but now it dug painfully into my skin. "Mr. Clark, I know the project is important, but my dad... he's not doing well. My mom is alone in the hospital. I just can't stop worrying."
The leader sighed, leaning back in his chair. After a few seconds of silence, he waved me off to handle it quickly. His impatience was like a sharp thorn stabbing at my chest. "Alright, alright, you better go home first. I'll find another way to handle the project. If this delays progress, it's on you."
I know I've always been incredibly careful with this job.
To get into this company, I went through three interviews, and during the probation period, I worked overtime until midnight every night, terrified that any slip-up would get me fired.
Now, if I hold up the project by requesting leave, I might really have to pack up and leave.
But then I think, I can find another job if I lose this one; Dad, though, is the only one I have. If I'm not there by his side now, I'll regret it for the rest of my life.
The bus rolled slowly into the village, moving much slower than in the city. As its wheels pressed over the stone pavement at the village entrance, it made a 'clatter-clatter' sound.
The familiar earthen walls and the crooked old locust tree slowly came into view. On the wall, the Spring Festival couplets I had put up last year had faded to a pale red, their edges curling up.
I was carrying a simple bag—a backpack with a few changes of clothes and toiletries. The moment my feet touched the ground after getting off the bus, I saw our neighbor Bella sitting by her doorway, picking vegetables.
On the small stool in front of her sat a bamboo basket filled with freshly pulled greens from the field, still vibrant and green, still holding the dampness of the soil.
Bella saw me and immediately put down the basket of vegetables in her hand, still holding a half-picked leaf, and called out loudly, "Ah, Simon's back! I've been hoping you'd come back. How's your dad? Yesterday, I went to the hospital to get medicine for Alex, and I saw your mom quietly wiping tears in the hallway. Her eyes were swollen—she looked so pitiful."
My heart sank suddenly, as if crushed by a heavy stone, making it hard to breathe.
I forced a smile and walked over to greet her. "Bella, I just got here. I'm heading straight to the hospital to see my dad. Thank you for still worrying about him."
After saying that, I quickened my pace toward the hospital just outside the village.
The village dirt road had been rained on a few days ago and was now muddy. Thick clumps of mud stuck to the soles of my shoes; every step felt heavy, like I was dragging a block of lead.
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