Chapter 11

Chapter 11

I started therapy again.

The doctor asked me why I had come this time.

I said, “I don’t want to let a program love someone for me anymore.”

The doctor didn’t laugh.

She had me sort through Fengli’s reminders one by one and separate what Nanzhi had left me as keepsakes from what had already become excuses for me to avoid reality.

It took me an entire week.

I kept the recording from Xiaoman’s birthday. I kept the letter where Nanzhi taught her how to refuse hugs. I kept the sound of the Four Seasons Wind Chimes.

I deleted the scheduled messages that let me pretend she was still in the kitchen, still waiting for me to come home.

When I pressed delete, my fingers trembled violently.

A confirmation box popped up on the screen: Permanently delete?

I stared at it for a long time. In the end, I clicked confirm.

That night, for the first time, I didn’t set out a second set of bowls and chopsticks.

Xiaoman sat in her high chair, seriously eating scrambled eggs with tomatoes. Halfway through, she suddenly asked, “Is Mommy eating?”

I held the spoon and paused for a few seconds.

“Mommy isn’t eating anymore,” I said. “But this is something Mommy taught Daddy how to make.”

Xiaoman blinked. “Mommy is amazing.”

I smiled. “Yeah. Mommy is very amazing.”

Then she asked, “Can Daddy do it?”

I looked at the eggs on the plate, a little overcooked.

“Daddy is still learning.”

The hardest part of treatment wasn’t admitting Nanzhi was dead.

I had learned how to say that sentence a long time ago.

The hard part was admitting that I couldn’t spend the rest of my life making it up to someone who was already gone, then keep shortchanging the child who was still alive as if I were in the right.

The doctor gave me one very specific task: set aside one nonnegotiable evening for Xiaoman every week.

No talking about work, no looking at my phone, no using “when I’m done being busy” as an excuse. Even if all I did was help her bathe, read three pages of a picture book, and match the socks she would wear the next day, I had to be present.

The first time I carried it out, I sat by Xiaoman’s bed and read Goodnight Moon.

By the third page, the company group chat began sending messages nonstop. Out of habit, I reached for my phone, but Xiaoman suddenly pressed down on my hand.

“Daddy, the moon isn’t asleep yet.”

I froze.

She meant the moon in the book.

But in that moment, I heard Nanzhi.

I put my phone on silent and left it outside the door.

Satisfied, Xiaoman burrowed back under the covers. She didn’t understand what a difficult withdrawal I had just gotten through. She only knew that tonight, the story hadn’t been interrupted.

For a child, love doesn’t need to be grand or earth-shattering.

Love is you still sitting here before this page is finished.