Chapter Eleven: My Father

In the oncology ward, Tang Maode lay at an angle on his hospital bed.

For Tang Maode, what tomorrow might bring was no longer something he cared about.

These past few days, he found himself slipping into memories, reliving the course of his life. Each recollection seemed to end with a sighing thought: "If only… then…" followed by a long, weary sigh.

Wang Jun set the insulated food container on the table beside the bed. “Second Brother, yesterday the restaurant took in 4,857. I checked with the hospital too—Xiao Chu still has plenty left from the payments. Don’t worry. Just focus on getting better.”

Tang Maode’s eyes remained vacant. He didn’t respond.

Wang Jun was used to his temperament. Without waiting for a reply, he opened the container and took out several light dishes, setting them out one by one.

“You’re his uncle, and by age you’re older than him. Why do you call him ‘brother’?” Tang Maode finally spoke, his tone slow and languid.

Wang Jun grinned. “It’s just a habit, you know. Haven’t you gotten used to hearing it yet? Xiao Chu is more capable than I am, anyway. Honestly, Second Brother, you should just let him do his own thing. Young people can’t be tied to a kitchen forever.”

“Aren’t you still young yourself?”

“It’s different for me. I’ll be thirty in a few years, and cooking is all I know. But don’t you know about Xiao Chu? One time I saw him sing a song, and the boss gifted him five thousand just for that. Five thousand for one song, finished in five minutes. If we worked all day, we couldn’t earn that much.”

As Wang Jun spoke, he reached out to help Tang Maode sit up to eat.

Tang Maode turned his head away, refusing to cooperate, making it clear he had no intention of eating.

“You didn’t see him when he had no gigs, sitting in front of the computer all night long,” Wang Jun went on. Since Tang Maode wouldn’t eat, he didn’t insist, and quietly returned the dishes to the container. “Things are good now, just like our restaurant. Once the reputation is built, it’s easy to bring in four or five thousand a day.”

It was better not to mention this; the moment he did, Tang Maode grew even more irritated. He turned to Wang Jun, “Exactly. If I put in just a bit of effort, making five thousand a day isn’t a problem, right? Now I hand it over to him, and if he were even a little sensible, even a little hardworking, buying a house or a car would just be a matter of time! Singing? Singing, my foot. Staying at home all day. It’s only because my body’s failed me—otherwise, who knows who’d be the first to go…”

Wang Jun quickly cut him off. “Alright, alright, Second Brother, don’t get worked up. Let’s not talk about him…”

Outside, Tang Zhichu hesitated by the door.

In his memory, there had never really been any “warm” moments between father and son.

He even harbored resentment toward his father.

By worldly standards, his father was not a successful man—neither in career nor finances, nor in family. He’d lived in the old house for decades, drove nothing but a minivan, and had divorced. When he ran the night market, he’d drunk heavily for years, sometimes gambling with unsavory friends, and once even owed tuition fees. Much of Tang Zhichu’s withdrawn nature stemmed from his father.

After university, the two often quarreled. Tang Maode’s temper never changed, but his actions did—he borrowed money to open a restaurant with five private rooms. This sparked another conflict: Tang Zhichu wanted to live his own life, while his father wanted him to help at the restaurant, even if it meant working for his own son.

After hesitating a while longer, Tang Zhichu finally pushed open the door.

The feeling was strange—familiar yet foreign. Meeting his father for the first time, in some sense.

Thankfully, the original Tang Zhichu had little to say to his father, so when he entered, the three exchanged only a brief glance. Then Tang Zhichu walked over and picked up the medical report lying nearby.

“Xiao Chu, you’re here!” Wang Jun stood up.

By age, Wang Jun was three years older than Tang Zhichu; they’d played together as children. Despite his current staid manner, he’d been a wild kid. Later, he’d gotten into trouble out of town and spent a few months in jail. Back then, Tang Maode had plenty of rowdy friends and believed in brotherhood. After drinking with a few buddies, he went to see Wang Jun that very night. Three or four days later, he brought him back.

Afterward, Wang Jun turned over a new leaf and learned to cook. When Tang Maode opened his restaurant, he called Wang Jun over—someone he could trust.

Years later, seeing Tang Zhichu again, Wang Jun began calling him “Xiao Chu,” perhaps transferring some of his gratitude toward Tang Maode onto Tang Zhichu. With his withdrawn and taciturn nature, Tang Zhichu never corrected him.

“Thanks for your hard work, Jun,” Tang Zhichu forced himself to say.

Wang Jun waved it off. “No trouble. We have an extra hand at the restaurant now. Things aren’t busy.”

Tang Zhichu grunted and plopped down on a nearby stool.

Tang Maode snorted. “I’m not dying just yet. Instead of wasting time visiting me, you’d be better off sorting out your love life.”

Tang Maode knew what Tang Zhichu had been up to lately, which was why Wang Jun had been looking after him.

Tang Zhichu said nothing, trying to acclimate to this feeling.

Seeing his silence, Tang Maode grew more agitated. “I’m not even asking you to bring someone home—just make some friends. Why stay cooped up all day? Look at your cousin—he came to see me a few days ago with a new girlfriend. Can’t you learn from him? Is that thing of yours only good for peeing?”

Wang Jun coughed awkwardly and quickly stood. “Um… I’ll go to the restroom.”

Tang Zhichu: “…”

“Good. Silent again. I, Tang Maode, once dominated the banquet tables, my boasting better than peanuts with wine. I could talk any lady weak at the knees, but with you, nothing works! University—was that a place to study? Useless. You couldn’t even find a girlfriend in college. I’ll be damned if my line ends with you. Aren’t you good at singing? Why not sing to those girls—”

Tang Zhichu finally looked up. Seeing his father wouldn’t let up, he replied, “They don’t pay me. Why would I sing for them?”

Tang Maode: “I…”

Tang Zhichu continued, “I can tell you haven’t eaten. You don’t even have the energy to scold me. Since when were you so refined? Are you really not up for it anymore?”

Tang Maode glared at him. “You little brat, who are you talking to?”

Tang Zhichu opened the food container again, taking out the dishes. “Only Jun would go out of his way to make you chicken soup. And here you are, pretending you’ve lost your appetite. Who are you putting on this show for? Who knows who’ll go first at this rate?”

“So you were eavesdropping, you little brat?”

“I listened fair and square. If you want to live a few days longer, eat something. With that attitude, you’re worried about the next generation? You’ll be lucky to even see your daughter-in-law—unless you want her to burn paper for you at your grave.”

Tang Maode was fuming, nostrils flaring. “Say that again, you little bastard! When I get better, if I don’t have it out with you, my name isn’t Tang. Dammit…”

Tang Zhichu shook his head, looking at him with open disdain, and took a few steps back. “Losing your temper now, are you? Never thought I’d see the day. Instead of fighting, maybe you should practice your comebacks. Otherwise, next time I’ll still get the better of you.”

With that, Tang Zhichu left the ward, but didn’t leave right away. He deliberately left the door ajar, and after sneaking a few glances from the doorway, finally turned away.