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墨書 Inktalez
The biopsy results came back. The doctor stated it plainly: "It's confirmed, you have Stage IV Ovarian Cancer, with multiple metastases. Surgery won't be effective, and chemotherapy can only extend your time a little; the quality of life will be very poor."
I sat in the consultation room, listening with an unusual calmness, as if I were hearing someone else's story. The dull abdominal pain and persistent low fever were my body’s long-standing warnings that I had either failed to recognize or dared not confront.
The doctor looked at me with a hint of sympathy. "You're still young... Do your family members know? It would be best to have them come in to discuss the treatment options moving forward."
Family. I only had a father.
Discuss? What would we discuss? Telling him that his daughter was dying and needed a large sum of money for treatments that might not even work, while dragging a broken body before him? What would he think? Would he feel burdened, inconvenienced, or... I couldn't bear to imagine.
Perhaps subconsciously, I had already made the choice for him.
"No need," I said softly. "I'll decide for myself."
I decided to forgo the painful and seemingly hopeless treatments. In the days that remained, I wanted to live quietly.
I didn't tell my father the truth. Instead, I fabricated a reason, saying there was an overseas project at work that required me to be away for a while. He didn't ask much; he simply replied with an "Okay," reminding me to "stay safe." As usual, there was no extra concern.
I moved back into that "home" where I hadn't lived for a long time. He worked during the day, and most of the time I was alone.
My body grew weaker. The pain became frequent and severe, requiring painkillers just to manage. I lost weight rapidly; my face barely held any flesh, and my eye sockets were deeply sunken. The reflection in the mirror was terrifyingly unfamiliar.
I began sorting through my belongings. I packed away unimportant clothes and carefully stored old letters and photographs. I bought a new diary and started writing in it—expressing thoughts I'd held in since childhood, unfulfilled desires that had never received acknowledgment, overlooked moments, as well as my current fears and frustrations.
Who was I writing for? Perhaps it was for myself or for some reader who would never see it.
I even tried one last time to act like an ordinary daughter.
That day when he came home from work, I mustered my strength and walked out of my room while he was changing his shoes.
"Dad," I started, my voice somewhat weak, "tonight... I made dinner."
In reality, it was just some simple porridge and stir-fried vegetables. I hadn't had the energy to cook in a long time.
He paused for a moment, looking at me and then at the simple meal on the table. "You made this?" His tone was flat. "What’s gotten into you today?"
"I just... wanted to make something," I replied.
We ate in silence as usual. He seemed oblivious to my pale face and noticeably thin frame—or perhaps he noticed but didn’t care.
As we neared the end of the meal, I gathered my courage and softly asked, "Dad, if... if one day I'm not here anymore, will you miss me?"
His hand paused mid-motion as he lifted his chopsticks, looking up with furrowed brows. "What nonsense are you talking about?" There was a hint of displeasure in his voice. "You're still young; why say such ominous things? Is work not going well?"
He began again with that familiar refrain, blaming everything on my immaturity and poor mindset. I said nothing more. The last flicker of hope in my heart was completely extinguished.
He would never understand. And he would never care.
The pain came more frequently, and the painkillers were becoming less effective. I knew time was running out.
On a sunny afternoon, I lay on my bed. The sky outside was a brilliant blue, with birds flying by. I could feel the vitality slowly draining from my body, like sand slipping through an hourglass, unstoppable.
My consciousness began to blur. Fragments of memories flashed before me: waiting on tiptoe for him to come home as a child, being questioned after scoring the highest in class, that discarded Thermos cup, and his countless indifferent glances and impatient words.
It seemed that my entire life had been spent chasing a shadow that would never turn back.
I tried hard to grasp a warm memory, but found it pitifully barren. Perhaps there were some? When I was younger and less understanding? But he was so stingy that not even a shred of evidence remained.
The physical pain gradually faded away, replaced by a profound sense of exhaustion and emptiness. I closed my eyes, feeling myself slowly sinking into an endless darkness.
In the end, a faint whisper escaped my lips, so soft that I could barely hear it myself.
“Dad… if…”
If what? If there is a next life… would I still want to be your daughter?
That question had no answer now.
The world fell completely silent.
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