The Valencia Life miVLC.com

On a seemingly calm noon in August, I had just started my Spanish class with Xiao Po. Suddenly, my phone rang with a WeChat call. Xiao Po heard it too and told me to answer the call first. I thought that was fine—after that, I could focus on the class.

My mother sounded anxious on the phone. “Go check on your dad. No matter how I call him, he won’t wake up.” She wasn’t on video at first. I told her I couldn’t see anything and asked her to switch to a video call. At that moment, I already sensed that something was serious.

When the video connected, I saw you as you usually looked when sleeping—your mouth slightly open. My mom spoke very fast: “Look, he’s like this and just won’t wake up.” I felt something terrible was happening and asked her to check if you were still breathing. She replied, “I don’t think so.” I knew then how serious it was. “Call 120 immediately,” I said. She hung up.

At that moment, I felt you might already be gone. You left in such a hurry, without leaving us a single word. My mind went blank. On the other end of the video call, Xiao Po also sensed something was wrong and asked what had happened to his grandpa. I pretended to stay calm and said, “Nothing serious.” But at that time we ended the class in silent understanding.

I immediately realized I had to book the earliest flight home. From Valencia to Madrid, it was a two-hour high-speed train ride, followed by a long six-hour wait. I had been away from home for a month, exhausted from house hunting and paperwork. To be honest, I had already started missing home and was thinking about returning before the New Year. I didn’t expect you would make that happen for me in this way.

At Madrid airport, there weren’t many seats, and the announcements were unclear, let alone covering the entire departure hall. I found a spot near the check-in counters and sat on the floor like many other travelers. At that moment, I felt strangely calm. My mind was filled with the image of you sleeping, your mouth slightly open, your complexion looking almost the same as usual.

In my ears echoed the words of the emergency doctor: “The elderly man no longer has a heartbeat, and his pupils have dilated. Do you want to continue resuscitation?” I understood what that meant, but I still asked my mom for her opinion. She said the doctor told her the golden five minutes for cardiac rescue had already passed, and continuing might only cause rib fractures and secondary injuries.

At that point, the decision rested only with my mother and me. It would take me at least a day and a half to get home. If we continued, my mother—a 75-year-old woman battling cancer—would have to bear everything alone. I was afraid it would crush her. For the sake of keeping the family going, we made the decision to stop resuscitation. I hope you won’t blame me from heaven.

At Madrid airport, I thought about so many things. Not being by your side when you left, not being able to save you in time, not helping clean or dress you—these all became deep regrets in my life.

On the thirteenth day after you left, the day before “Erqi,” I boarded the flight back to Spain. I had an appointment for fingerprinting, and if I missed it, I didn’t know whether I could re-enter the country or reschedule. I believe you would understand my dilemma. Before leaving, I lit three sticks of incense for you, bowed three times, and said goodbye. It was probably the most formal farewell I had given you in years.

Would you have felt surprised? I don’t know. Over the past two years, because of your dementia, I barely spoke to you in any meaningful way. Occasionally, I had to repeat the same words over and over just to be understood. You didn’t always recognize who I was, but you probably still felt it. Sometimes you ignored me; sometimes you argued with me. You said harsh words and often told me to get out of your house. Before coming to Spain, I even thought, “Fine, I’ll leave—leave far away from you.”Looking back now, you were the real master. You left completely victorious—without a single word, leaving us no chance to hold on to you. Even in leaving, you won.

Dad, I concede.

The night before returning to Spain, I fell asleep. You must have come back. In my dream, you asked me for my pants. Naturally, I couldn’t lose. I replied, “If I give them to you, what will I wear?” You turned and left. I couldn’t catch up. I know which clothes of mine you liked when I was thinner—they fit you perfectly. Since you came to find me, you must have known I was your son, no longer just the “comrade” living in your house. Your wish will be fulfilled. Please receive it on “Sanqi”.

On the seventh day after you left, a cicada suddenly appeared outside the children’s bedroom window, clinging there and calling loudly, refusing to leave. I knew right away—you had come back. You never entered the children’s room before, but you always stood at the door, watching your grandson, making small talk just to say something. This time you were even more capable—climbing onto the window to talk to your grandson.

You scolded me plenty in those years, called me names, told me to get lost whenever you felt like it. But this grandson—he was the only one whose name you always remembered. That kind of affection across generations can’t be competed with. He truly loved you. Whenever there was something tasty or new, he always saved a portion for you. Even after you left, when he bought “Wang Wang”, he offered them to you. Three meals a day, without missing one. When he heard you had passed, he cried until his eyes were swollen.

Your second grandson has grown up too. Although his academic performance isn’t particularly outstanding, in this matter I give him full marks. Now that you’re in heaven, the children worship you like a guardian spirit, hoping you will bless both of them with safe and healthy growth, success in their studies, and a happy, joyful life.

Dad, you left six months ago, without saying a word. My mom panicked and called 120. The emergency doctor instructed her—a 75-year-old woman with cancer—to perform CPR on you. She followed the instructions and tried to press your chest. But how much strength could she have? She couldn’t even carry groceries, let alone perform professional CPR. After a lifetime of fighting and arguing, she still couldn’t bear to let you go.

You should be satisfied.

When I got home, my mom told me that day you were unusually calm. You even did the laundry. You didn’t argue with her. You just fell asleep and left. Maybe you already knew something that day. Maybe you were lucid. If you had said something—anything—I wouldn’t have felt this sudden, overwhelming pain. I wasn’t mentally prepared yet. I thought that when I went home for the Spring Festival, you would argue with me again—but there was no longer any chance.

Thankfully, my uncle and Xiao Kai arrived in time. They helped dress you and guided us through everything that followed, so I wouldn’t be completely lost when I returned. Blood is thicker than water. They did everything wholeheartedly, and I’m deeply grateful that they arrived before my sister and me.

You once told my uncle to let the past be the past. He truly did. Your final reconciliation made me realize that despite the serious mistakes my sister made—mistakes that caused immense harm to the family and to me—she is still my sister. I will help her. As long as I’m here, she won’t starve. My abilities are limited, but I will do my best to help her live.

Dad, you left—too suddenly. You went from a man who could eat, fight, and curse, to a quiet little box. Your physical form disappeared, as if you vanished from this world. But you never disappeared from my life. You just moved to another place—my heart.

I will never forget the electronic keyboard you bought me when I was in second grade.
I will never forget you riding a bicycle to visit me when I boarded at middle school, bringing food my mom had cooked.

I will never forget how rigid you sometimes were in daily life. Even when there was no one on the road, you would still wait for the traffic light to turn green. We often waited a long time, but you taught me what it means to follow the rules. And now I realize that every time I wait at a traffic light, it is one more minute I get to be with you.

I will never forget every home we had together—from Hebei, to Shiyi Street, to Wanhongli, to Chongwenmen—every complete home where you were there.

Following in your footsteps, always. Your loving son.