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墨書 Inktalez
I ultimately endured that high fever on my own. After lying in bed for two days, alternating between fever-reducing medication and cold compresses, I finally managed to get up on the third day. My body was still weak, but much better than before.
Dad acted as if nothing had happened. At the dinner table, he remained silent as usual; when he did speak, it was only to mention work-related matters or to remind me to take out the trash. Not a single word was said about my illness.
I had grown accustomed to it. Yet, the part of my heart that had long since scabbed over seemed to be reopened, oozing with fresh wounds.
This incident reminded me of something that had happened a long time ago. It was during my second year of high school, on the day we received our report cards after the final exams.
During that period, I had been studying with all my might. I would review late into the night and wake up early each morning to memorize my notes. I wasn’t a genius; all I could rely on was hard work. I desperately wanted to achieve something that would make Dad see me in a different light, even if just a little.
On the day we received our report cards, my palms were sweaty. When the homeroom teacher called my name and announced my total score and ranking, the entire class fell silent for a moment.
First in the entire grade.
I could hardly believe my ears. Holding that report card with its bold red ranking, my heart raced violently in my chest. It wasn’t joy; it was a cautious anticipation tinged with anxiety.
Maybe this time would be different? Maybe he would be proud of me just once?
On the way home from school, I clutched the report card tightly, my steps lighter than usual. I imagined his surprised expression upon seeing my grades—would there even be a hint of a smile?
As I pushed open the door to our home, Dad was sitting in the living room reading the newspaper. I took a deep breath and walked over, presenting the report card to him.
“Dad, here’s my report card.” I tried to keep my voice calm.
He set down the newspaper and took the report card from me, his gaze falling upon it. I stared intently at his face, searching for any sign of change.
He furrowed his brow at first, then his eyes fixed on the words "First in the entire grade," lingering there for a few seconds.
I held my breath.
He looked up at me, but there was none of the emotion I had hoped for—only cold scrutiny and suspicion.
“Who did you copy?” he asked flatly, his tone like a bucket of ice water poured over me.
My blood ran cold instantly. “I didn’t,” I instinctively retorted, my voice trembling slightly. “I earned this myself.”
“You earned this yourself?” He repeated it with a hint of barely concealed sarcasm at the corner of his mouth. “Just you? Lin Wan, when did you become so dishonest?”
“I didn’t!” I exclaimed urgently, speaking faster now. “I prepared for this exam for a long time; I studied every night…”
“Enough,” he interrupted me, his face clearly showing disbelief. “What’s the point of making up stories? Learning to cheat at such a young age—what good will that do you in the future?”
His words pierced through me like needles. “I really didn’t cheat! If you don’t believe me, you can ask our teacher!”
“Ask the teacher?” He seemed to find this amusing. “Do you think teachers can watch you all the time? If you got first place, it must have been because you cheated!”
At that moment, all my expectations and joy shattered into pieces. I looked at him, the man I had called "Dad" for over a decade, and felt an overwhelming sense of strangeness. My efforts, my sweat, in his eyes, were equated directly with cheating and lies.
He didn’t give me a chance to argue further; he picked up the phone next to him and dialed the homeroom teacher's number. I stood frozen in place, my hands and feet cold, watching helplessly as he sought confirmation on the other end of the line. "Hello, is this Teacher Wang? I’m Lin Wan’s parent... Yes, I wanted to ask about her score on the final exam... Is there really no problem with it?"
On the other end, the homeroom teacher's voice faintly came through, seemingly affirming something. My father listened, his expression unchanged, only occasionally responding with a noncommittal "mm."
After hanging up, he tossed the report card onto the coffee table and picked up a newspaper to read again. It was as if that phone call and my top score in the entire grade were nothing more than trivial interruptions.
I stood there in a daze, waiting for him to say at least something.
After a long while, without looking up from his paper, he casually remarked, "Looks like it was just luck; you guessed quite a few answers right."
No apology, no acknowledgment, not even a glance in my direction.
In that instant, I realized clearly that I had already been labeled in his mind. No matter how well I performed or how hard I worked, I could not change his prejudice. My excellence was not seen as an honor; instead, it became evidence of misconduct in his eyes.
Silently, I picked up that report card which seemed to have lost all meaning and turned back to my room. Closing the door behind me and leaning against it, tears finally fell uncontrollably.
It wasn’t out of grievance but rather a profound sense of helplessness. It turned out that for some people, no matter how hard you try, you can never warm their hearts. Your very existence might just be seen as a mistake to them.
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