我们留下来,他离开了
2025-06-16 11:27 来源:SGSG
我们留下了,他离开了
我父亲回流中国那年,我十六岁,弟弟十一岁。那之前,我们一家短暂地在加拿大待过两年。他试着适应——试着去超市应聘夜班理货员,试着在唐人街帮人跑腿,甚至刷过几次餐馆的碗。可一个在国内管着几十号人的中年男人,最终败给了这里的“英文流利”门槛。
而最让他难以接受的,是母亲的“稳定”。她没有体面的学历,也不会太多英文,但她在本地一家中餐厅做帮厨,工作辛苦,却从不间断。哪怕洗碗、择菜、配料,她也从未叫苦,只因她始终相信,“只要孩子留下来读书,一切都值得。”
可父亲不这么想。他曾是国内企业的管理或者股东,在熟悉的语境里游刃有余。如今却只能靠熟人介绍,做些临时零工。他不甘,他憋闷。他常在饭后站在阳台抽烟,母亲劝他少抽几根,他便沉默不语。渐渐地,话越来越少,争吵却越来越多。
他们争吵的内容总是重复:
——“你说得轻松,我在中国那么好的工作放下,来这边干嘛?为了让你在这洗碗?”
——“那你回去啊!你以为我愿意洗碗吗?可我至少没有丢下你们!”
——“你说得轻松,我在中国那么好的工作放下,来这边干嘛?为了让你在这洗碗?”
——“那你回去啊!你以为我愿意洗碗吗?可我至少没有丢下你们!”
吵架的根源,从来都不是洗碗或不洗碗,而是那句始终说不出口的委屈:到底是谁在为家庭牺牲,谁又更“值得”留下。
他们也常为是否在加拿大买房争执。父亲说这里的地贵,不如把钱拿回中国继续投资、买房。母亲却坚持孩子在这边读书,早晚要有个落脚的地方。
他们也常为是否在加拿大买房争执。父亲说这里的地贵,不如把钱拿回中国继续投资、买房。母亲却坚持孩子在这边读书,早晚要有个落脚的地方。
没有结果。只有争吵,像潮水一样一波接一波,没有休止。
那时我就站在餐桌边,像个透明人。弟弟躲进房间,把耳机音量调到最大。而我,只能拼命向母亲靠拢——帮她洗碗、替她写便签、在电话里替她翻译预约医生的英文。我小心翼翼地维系着这个家,试图成为父母感情之间的那座桥。
我知道自己太渺小了,根本撑不起他们之间的河。但只要我表现得足够懂事、足够努力,是不是就能减轻一点他们的重负?是不是他们就不会那么快分崩离析?
我试过晚上偷偷背下所有水电账单的英文术语,试过悄悄查阅学校附近的房价信息;我甚至试着在纸上画下加拿大的购房流程,希望他们哪天吵累了能停下来看看,明白我们在这里扎根也不是毫无意义。
可那一晚,一切终究还是走到了临界点。
那天晚上,我看到父亲坐在厨房的灯下,翻着我们家的水电账单。他手指停在“逾期缴费”那一行,眼神有些模糊。许久,他才抬头看着我和妈妈,说:“我走吧。这边的世界,我融不进去。”
我默默看着爸爸,又回头看向妈妈,惶恐不安。我试图改变什么,甚至下意识地紧紧握住爸爸的手,仿佛只要不放,就能留住他的决定。
千言万语堵在喉咙,我看着妈妈那张沉静的脸,空气里弥漫着一种说不清、道不明的气氛。他们之间仿佛早已达成默契,这不过是迟早的决定。
弟弟那天躲在楼梯口偷听。等父亲进房收拾东西时,他跑来问我:“爸是不是不要我们了?”我一时哽住,不知该怎么回答。那年他才十一岁,却已经学会了把哭声压进喉咙。
父亲走的那天,弟弟强忍着没掉一滴眼泪。只是在机场回家的路上,他背对着我轻轻说了一句:“我以后会赚很多钱,让爸爸回来。”
可他后来再也没有提过,也没问过父亲过得好不好。像是把那一晚连同机场的风一起,锁进了记忆深处。
那一晚之后,我们再也没有提起过。只是有时,风吹过厨房窗户的缝隙时,我总觉得,那天在机场的风,好像从未真正离开。
We Stayed. He Left.
My father moved back to China when I was sixteen and my younger brother was eleven. Before that, the four of us had spent two short years together in Canada. He tried to adapt—tried applying for night shifts stocking shelves at the supermarket, tried running errands for people in Chinatown, even tried washing dishes in a few restaurants. But a man who had once managed dozens of employees back home ultimately lost to the barrier that read: “Fluent English Required.”
What was hardest for him to accept was my mother’s “stability.”
She had no prestigious degree and spoke only limited English, but she worked as a kitchen helper in a local Chinese restaurant. It was exhausting work, yet she never missed a day. She chopped vegetables, washed dishes, prepped meat—without complaint. She always believed: “As long as the kids get to stay and study here, it’s all worth it.”
She had no prestigious degree and spoke only limited English, but she worked as a kitchen helper in a local Chinese restaurant. It was exhausting work, yet she never missed a day. She chopped vegetables, washed dishes, prepped meat—without complaint. She always believed: “As long as the kids get to stay and study here, it’s all worth it.”
But my father didn’t see it that way. Back in China, he had been a company manager—perhaps even a shareholder—confident in his familiar environment. Now, in a foreign land, he could only rely on friends to introduce him to temporary jobs. He was bitter. He was stifled. He often stood silently on the balcony after dinner, smoking. When my mother told him to cut back, he said nothing. Slowly, their conversations dwindled. Their arguments, however, escalated.
The fights were always the same:
—“Easy for you to say. I gave up a good job in China to come here. What, just so you could wash dishes?”
—“Then go back! You think I want to wash dishes? At least I didn’t leave the family behind!”
—“Then go back! You think I want to wash dishes? At least I didn’t leave the family behind!”
But the root of their conflict wasn’t about who washed dishes. It was the unspoken resentment neither could articulate: Who was really sacrificing more for this family? Who was more ‘worthy’ of staying?
They fought often over whether to buy a house in Canada.
My father argued that land here was expensive and said we should take the money back to China—invest, buy property.
My mother insisted we’d eventually need a home here since the kids were going to grow up and study here.
My father argued that land here was expensive and said we should take the money back to China—invest, buy property.
My mother insisted we’d eventually need a home here since the kids were going to grow up and study here.
There were no resolutions—only arguments, swelling like waves, relentless and unending.
I often stood at the edge of the dining room, like a ghost.
My brother would hide in his room, headphones blasting music.
And I? I clung desperately to my mother’s side—helping her wash dishes, writing notes for her, translating doctor appointments over the phone. I tried to hold the family together, to become a bridge between their fraying emotions.
My brother would hide in his room, headphones blasting music.
And I? I clung desperately to my mother’s side—helping her wash dishes, writing notes for her, translating doctor appointments over the phone. I tried to hold the family together, to become a bridge between their fraying emotions.
I knew I was too small to span the river growing between them.
But I thought—if I acted mature enough, tried hard enough, maybe I could ease their burden. Maybe they wouldn’t fall apart so quickly.
But I thought—if I acted mature enough, tried hard enough, maybe I could ease their burden. Maybe they wouldn’t fall apart so quickly.
I memorized every term on the utility bills in English.
I secretly researched housing prices near school.
I even drew out the Canadian home-buying process on paper, hoping one day, when the arguing wore them out, they might stop and see—settling here wasn’t meaningless.
I secretly researched housing prices near school.
I even drew out the Canadian home-buying process on paper, hoping one day, when the arguing wore them out, they might stop and see—settling here wasn’t meaningless.
But that night, the inevitable finally arrived.
I saw my father sitting under the kitchen light, flipping through the electricity bill. His finger stopped at the line that said “overdue.” His gaze grew distant. After a long silence, he looked up at us and said quietly,
“I’m going back. I don’t belong in this world.”
“I’m going back. I don’t belong in this world.”
I looked at him, then at my mother. I was terrified. I wanted to stop him, to change something.
I reached out and held his hand tightly, as if just by not letting go, I could undo what was already decided.
I reached out and held his hand tightly, as if just by not letting go, I could undo what was already decided.
I had a thousand things I wanted to say, but nothing came out.
I stared at my mother’s face—calm, unreadable.
The air between us filled with something unspeakable.
They had probably known this would happen all along.
I stared at my mother’s face—calm, unreadable.
The air between us filled with something unspeakable.
They had probably known this would happen all along.
My little brother had been eavesdropping from the stairs.
When our father went into his room to pack, my brother ran to me and whispered:
“Is Dad leaving us for good?”
When our father went into his room to pack, my brother ran to me and whispered:
“Is Dad leaving us for good?”
I froze. I didn’t know how to answer.
He was only eleven—but he already knew how to swallow his tears.
He was only eleven—but he already knew how to swallow his tears.
On the day our father left, my brother didn’t cry—not a single tear.
But on the way home from the airport, he turned his back to me and said softly:
“I’m going to make a lot of money when I grow up—so Dad will come back.”
But on the way home from the airport, he turned his back to me and said softly:
“I’m going to make a lot of money when I grow up—so Dad will come back.”
But he never mentioned it again.
He never asked how Dad was doing.
It was as if he had locked that night away, along with the wind from the airport, deep in a place no one could reach.
He never asked how Dad was doing.
It was as if he had locked that night away, along with the wind from the airport, deep in a place no one could reach.
We never spoke of that night again. But sometimes, in the quiet hum of the heater or the rustle of bills on the kitchen counter, I wonder if the wind from the airport ever truly left us.