My Parents Visited Us in Guangzhou

 
My dad’s brows knitted in displeasure. As our guest, he curbed his temper, choosing instead to embark on a three-hour drive back to Huizhou, unfazed by the protests from my mother and me.
With a proud stride, my dad departed without a backward glance. My mom, with a rueful smile, urged my husband Chou to overlook his temper. That night, she divulged via WeChat the root of my dad’s ire: our disruption of his perceived family hierarchy. Revered as a dedicated husband and father, my dad had toiled in Shenzhen post-reform, running a restaurant. His days began with early ingredient checks, stretching into long hours in the sweltering kitchen, juggling multiple tasks. Nights found him returning home, weary yet uncomplaining, his life devoid of weekends or holidays. Yet, domestic duties, child care, and our education remained solely my mom’s realm.
“What use is a wife if a man washes dishes?” my dad, in private, lamented to my mom. A confrontation with me would spark heated debates, as I challenged his views with, “No woman seeks a life cloaked only in sacrifice.” I would shout back, venting my frustration with patriarchy on him personally.
He prophesied to my mom, “A world where youth flee from the altar, where the aged become the wards of their kin, where matriarchs bow to the whims of daughters-in-law, is a world teetering on the brink.”
These echoes of my dad, carried on the wings of my mom’s voice, left me sighing at his deep-seated discontent – his scornful snorts, dismissive head shakes, and contemplative smoke puffs.
“In the face of progress and the education I’ve embraced, I couldn’t envision adhering to the husband-centric, unquestioning obedience to paternal authority that you and Grandma lived by.” I shared this with my mom and, in my thoughts, with my dad.
I didn’t want to argue with him about this. During my teenage years, our daily battles were fierce – I would shout at him, declaring, “I would never marry someone like you; I’d rather stay unmarried for life.” This proclamation, as relayed by my mom, still wounds my dad’s heart. Our arguments have ceased, replaced by a mutual avoidance.
His labor-roughened hands and bent back haunt me. His love, his dedication — undeniable. Yet, between us, gaps yawn, carved by silence and time’s relentless march. I ache to grasp his hand, as he once led me across streets. Now, distances stretch; I’ve outgrown the little girl who held hands without question.