Touching story about family love
Last autumn, my mother was diagnosed with late-stage stomach cancer. Every morning, my father would still accompany her for their usual morning walk.
I stood by the window, watching them walk side by side, chatting and laughing, and I couldn’t hold back my tears…
In the past, my mother would make wontons once a week to satisfy my father’s cravings. My father would always say that no restaurant could make wontons as good as my mother’s. Her wonton wrappers were thin, the filling tender, and the taste was just right, flavorful but not greasy.
Whenever my father talked about my mother’s wontons, his face would light up. And when my mother heard his compliments, she would laugh endlessly. Sometimes, she would hum a little tune while washing dishes in the kitchen, filled with joy. After my mother became ill, she changed her habit and started making wontons three times a week. My father also began eating more and more, devouring them ravenously.
My mother would tease him, saying, “Look at you, it’s like you haven’t had wontons in 800 years. Slow down, no one’s going to take them away from you.”
I understood, though. My mother knew she didn’t have much time left, so she wanted to make wontons for my father as often as possible. And my father understood her intentions too. Every time, he ate until he was stuffed, knowing well that overeating wasn’t good for his health. He wasn’t just eating for the taste; he was cherishing every opportunity to eat her wontons, savoring every one she made for him.
My parents seemed calm about her illness. I never heard them discuss it. Even when my mother took her medication, she always smiled, and my father pretended nothing was wrong, as if she had caught a simple cold. Life didn’t change much because of her illness; the atmosphere at home remained warm and loving.
I never heard them sigh, nor did I see any sadness on their faces. They continued their daily walks in the park, went to the theater to watch face-changing performances, and afterward, they’d return home, excitedly discussing what they’d seen. My mother loved tending to flowers, and my father kept buying more and more, until the balcony was so full there was barely any space to walk. The fragrance of the flowers filled the air.
My mother grew thinner, but her spirits stayed high. One Saturday, my sister and I were sitting in the living room with her, helping her wrap wontons. My father was downstairs playing chess.
My mother said, “I know about my illness. I’m not worried about anything anymore, except your father. Don’t be fooled by how cheerful he seems now. He’s just trying to keep me from feeling sad. But once I’m gone, he’ll be heartbroken.”
My sister and I didn’t say a word, our eyes filling with tears. “When you’re old, your spouse is your closest companion,” she continued. “Your father’s growing old, and soon he’ll be without me. When I’m gone, you two must take good care of him.”
“Mom, please don’t say that…” I broke down in tears. That evening, my father and mother still enjoyed the wontons, but my sister and I found them hard to swallow.
Maybe people can sense when death is near. The night before my mother passed, she called me to her bedside, pulled a piece of paper from under her pillow, and handed it to me. “Take a look at this and keep it safe,” she said. “That way, you’ll know how to take care of your father.”
I opened the paper and saw a long list of notes: “Your father hates Sichuan pepper, so don’t ever use it in cooking,” and “He likes to drink a glass of cold water first thing in the morning, so make sure to pour it the night before.” My tears fell, drop by drop, onto the paper.
On the day my mother passed, my father didn’t cry. He sat by her bedside and said just one thing: “My dear, I still want to eat your wontons…” A smile appeared on my mother’s face as she peacefully closed her eyes.
After my mother’s funeral, my father returned home and went straight to his study without saying a word. Before long, we heard him crying. My sister and I rushed in to comfort him.
He waved us off and said, “Let me cry for a while.” My sister and I looked at each other and silently left the room.
At that moment, I finally understood. My father and mother weren’t as strong as they had seemed. All along, they had been hiding their sadness with smiles, each trying to keep the other from being upset.
On the first Sunday after my mother’s death, my sister and I followed her instructions and made wontons for my father. At dinner, my father picked up a wonton, took a bite, then put down his chopsticks with a sigh.
“Dad, do the wontons not taste as good as Mom’s?” I asked.
Shaking his head, he replied, “It’s not the wontons I care about. It’s the person who used to make them. That person who sat here making wontons for me is gone…”
Tears welled up in my sister’s and my eyes. It wasn’t that my father loved wontons so much. What he cherished was the person who made them for him.
Thank you for reading! ” Sitestorys “
