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墨書 Inktalez
After entering university, I left home and moved into the school dormitory. The distance created some space, but it did not bring beauty; instead, it only intensified the sense of alienation. Every month, my father would promptly transfer my living expenses to my card—neither too much nor too little, just enough for basic expenses. Our phone calls followed a regular pattern: he would usually ask, "Is the money enough?" I would reply, "Yes," and then there would be a long silence, ending with him saying, "If there's nothing else, I'll hang up."
In my sophomore year, I wanted to buy him a birthday gift.
The thought struck me as somewhat ridiculous. After everything we had been through, why should I engage in such a thankless endeavor? Yet, there was always a faint voice inside me saying, maybe, just maybe? What if this time he would actually like it?
The living expenses were just sufficient for my needs, so if I wanted to buy a gift, I had to find a way to earn some extra money. I didn’t tell him and secretly looked for a part-time job at a Western restaurant near the school.
The work at the restaurant was exhausting. Every evening, I had to stand for several hours, serving plates and clearing tables while dealing with various customers. Sometimes I encountered difficult patrons or faced the manager's bad mood, which inevitably meant enduring some unpleasantness. By the time I returned to the dormitory after work, I was often so tired that all I wanted to do was collapse into bed, knowing I had to wake up early for classes the next day.
But I persevered. Each time I received my meager paycheck, I carefully saved it up, watching that number grow little by little, and with it, my faint hope seemed to ignite.
My father's birthday fell in winter. I wanted to buy him something practical. He usually drank from an old enamel mug that was chipped and faded; I thought a nice Thermos Cup would be a good choice.
On the weekend, I visited several malls and carefully compared styles, materials, and insulation performance. Finally, I settled on a deep gray Thermos Cup that looked elegant and understated. The price was a bit steep for me; it nearly drained all the money I'd saved from two months of part-time work. But when I paid for it, my heart fluttered with excitement.
I wrapped the Thermos Cup carefully in wrapping paper and tied it with a simple ribbon.
On his birthday, I made a special trip home.
He was sitting on the sofa watching TV as usual and barely acknowledged my sudden appearance with just a lift of his eyelids.
“Dad,” I walked over and handed him the wrapped gift with an effortful smile. “Happy Birthday. This is for you.”
He glanced at the box in my hand but did not take it.
“What is it?” he asked in a flat tone.
“A Thermos Cup,” I replied. “I noticed your old mug is worn out; this one has good insulation.”
He still didn’t reach out; he simply said indifferently, “Just put it there.”
I placed the gift on the coffee table beside him where his newspapers and ashtray were piled up. He didn’t even look at it again; his attention quickly returned to the television screen.
The atmosphere in the living room grew awkward. I stood there unsure of what to say or do. The meal he had prepared was already laid out on the table—something he had thrown together casually—one meat dish and one vegetable dish, just like any other day.
“Let’s eat,” he said as he got up and walked toward the dining area.
I silently followed behind him. The dinner table remained quiet as usual. He occasionally picked up food with his chopsticks, producing soft clinks against the bowl. I had little appetite and set down my chopsticks after just a few bites.
“Wash your bowl when you’re done,” he instructed.
“Okay,” I replied.
That night, I didn’t stay at home; I made an excuse to return to school. The gift that had been placed on the coffee table remained untouched by him throughout our encounter; he didn’t even ask how I had managed to buy it.
A few days later, on a weekend, I returned home to retrieve a document I had left behind. The house was empty; he was probably working overtime or out playing cards.
I picked up the document and was about to leave when I instinctively thought to take out the trash from the living room. Just as I lifted the garbage bag, my gaze froze.
The carefully wrapped Gift Box lay conspicuously in the trash can. The box was open, and the Thermos Cup inside was intact, but it was covered by some crumpled paper and a Peel, like a discarded piece of rubbish.
My heart felt as if it had been tightly gripped by something, instantly constricting and causing me pain that made it hard to breathe.
I had spent several evenings standing in the restaurant until my legs were weak, enduring complaints from customers and the manager's disapproving looks, carefully saving every penny. I had gone to several stores, meticulously choosing that cup with the hope that he would use it. My meager efforts to mend our relationship and the sentiment behind it… all tossed into the trash without a second thought.
It turned out that along with my gift, I too was insignificant in his eyes—just another piece of garbage that could be discarded at any moment.
I didn’t touch the trash can. I simply stood there, staring at that box for a long, long time.
That afternoon, sunlight streamed through the window and fell onto the living room floor, yet it could not penetrate even a fraction of my heart. I felt something inside me shatter completely, irreparably broken.
From that day on, I never attempted to buy him any gifts again. I extinguished that last flicker of unrealistic hope within me.
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