Chapter 21

Chapter 21

Perhaps it was because he had shared his own family history so candidly first.

It made me feel like it wasn’t so difficult to speak up anymore.

I hesitated, then said, “My mother passed away. And my father… like yours, we’ve cut ties.”

That year, my mother had a funeral.

Many people came, a vast sea of black.

The master of ceremonies gave a long eulogy.

I didn’t quite understand it all, and my mind wandered halfway through.

A butterfly flew into the funeral hall and landed on my mother’s portrait.

Its fluttering wings made the photo look as if it had come to life.

I saw my mother smiling at me, so I smiled back.

The next second, my father slapped me to the ground.

“Your mother is dead!” he roared. “How can you still smile?!”

Everyone stared at me as if I were a monster.

I burst into tears.

He slapped me again.

“I haven’t even cried yet! What are you crying for?!”

“If you cry again, I’ll throw you out! I won’t want you anymore!!”

In that moment, I was terrified.

With tears welling in my eyes, I bit my lip hard, not daring to make another sound.

During the first year after my mother died, my father often sat in the living room in the middle of the night, flipping through old letters and photos.

In the second year, he packed her things into several cardboard boxes, piled them in a corner, and let them gather dust.

In the third year, he remarried.

That new woman threw the boxes into the yard, intending to burn everything to ashes.

I fought desperately to dig out that camera, clutching it tightly to my chest even as I suffered burns across my body.

From then on, that was the only memento of my mother I had left.

Later, my younger sister was born.

The family’s love and energy were all devoted to her.

I grew up in that house like an invisible person until I was eighteen.

I went to university to major in journalism.

On the day I left for registration, my father took out a thick stack of cash and threw it at me.

“You’re grown now. Don’t come back anymore.”

I counted it; there were thirty thousand yuan.

Thirty thousand yuan was the price to sever our blood ties.

After I started university, my professors and classmates all said I was well-suited to be a journalist.

This was because no matter what kind of event I encountered, I could remain expressionless.

Once I became a war correspondent, this became even more of an advantage.

They all admired my psychological resilience.

But only I knew the truth: I didn’t dare to feel.

Deep down, I felt that if I hadn’t provoked my father’s anger in the funeral hall that day, maybe he wouldn’t have abandoned me.

I was used to suppressing all my emotions.

I didn’t dare to think about what else I might lose if I let myself laugh freely or shed tears again.

…

Having said all this, I let out a soft sigh.

These things had been weighed down in my heart for years; this was the first time I had ever confided them to anyone.

Ji Cheng’s brow was deeply furrowed.

The corners of his mouth, which usually held a hint of a smile, had dropped.

His tone was solemn.

“Nie Lan, have you forgotten that you were only a five-year-old child back then?”

I was a bit dazed. “What?”

“Laughing and crying freely is a child’s prerogative.”

“You suppress yourself so desperately only because you were never allowed to be a child.”