金项链与未尽的告别——写给我曾寄养在她身边的外婆

可有些告别，不等生离死别，就早已注定成了遗憾。

我至今记得，那年冬天，我在加拿大接到消息——
外婆在浴室洗澡时不慎滑倒，碎裂的玻璃划伤了她的大腿，血流不止，紧急送医，缝了好几针。

她那年，九十多岁。

我泪眼婆娑，整夜辗转反侧。她那样善良节俭，一生勤劳温和，从不与人争抢一分一毫，却在晚年遭遇如此疼痛与惊恐。
而我，远在千里之外，连一句安慰都来不及说，连她是否疼得睡得着，都无从得知。

那一刻，我忽然明白，人生最深的愧疚，从不是“做错了什么”，而是“来不及”。
有些人，你以为总会在那里，直到命运把你们硬生生分在两个世界。

那晚，我哭着睡去，梦见她在厨房里煮面，喊我小名，像多年前那样，轻声说：“快趁热吃。”

小时候，为了我上学方便，妈妈决定让我搬去外婆家寄住一段时间。那时她和爸爸在家做生意，而我，则在外婆的小院子里，度过了人生最安稳、也最被爱的童年。

她每天给我梳头、煮饭、喂饭，叮嘱我带好书包、按时吃饭。晚上，她坐在床边，轻轻哼着福州老歌谣哄我入睡。她不说“我爱你”，但她的爱藏在一碗粥、一勺汤、一双温热粗糙的手掌中。

我一直记得一个画面。

那是一个阳光温柔的午后，老房子被晒得暖暖的。我窝在她的床上，怀里抱着那只黄白相间的小猫。它在我腿上轻轻打呼噜，我一只手摸着它的毛，另一只手握着她织毛衣剩下的线球。风吹动窗帘，屋里只听得见猫的呼吸声和老钟的滴答声。

那一刻，我觉得，整个世界都在原地等我长大。

那是我此生最幸福、最宁静、最没有焦虑的时光。

而我，却从未亲口对她说过“谢谢”。

后来我们搬家，我回到父母身边，而她，仍住在那个老宅。我忙着升学、考试，忙着走出童年留下的房间。再后来，我远赴加拿大，而她，继续守着那一屋老家具和老光阴。

从我出国那天起，生活就不一样了。

16岁，我开始半独立的生活，为了补贴学费，在中餐厅做服务员。打烊常常是凌晨十二点半，街上几乎没人。我穿着制服，抱着账本，心跳和脚步一样快。

Hastings街不远处，有流浪汉在游荡。有一次，我发现有人在盯着我。他开始跟着我走。我不敢回头，手机捏在手里冰冷发抖，绕了两个街区才甩开。

那天我凌晨一点才到家，鞋没脱就坐在门口，眼泪在眼眶打转。

但我一句也没说。
不敢告诉父母，更不敢告诉远在中国的外婆。

我知道，从离开那张中国小床和那只猫咪的那天起，我的人生已经彻底不同了。从“有人为你热饭”变成了“你必须自己熬夜吃冷饭”。

再也没有人像她一样，在我下课前就把饭热好，在我考试后递来一碗糖水，问一句：“累不累啊？”

我必须学会一个人扛住晚班、学费、孤独，和没人知道的恐惧。

而她，那个曾为我剪指甲、洗校服、泡牛奶的外婆，也许还在老宅里，念叨着：“她一个人在外头，有没有好好吃饭？”

然后，是命运更猛烈的一击。

21岁那年，我在异国街头被车撞飞，腿部骨折，动了手术。虽然不是粉碎性骨折，但恢复期极长，每走一步都牵动神经。我拄着拐杖、吃着止痛药，撑着破碎的身体继续修AI学位。

几年后，我被UVIC录取，只剩三门课，却崩溃了。

我不再能像以前那样学习。记忆力变差，情绪低落，胸口一阵阵抽痛。我知道，那是抑郁症复发。

晚上睁眼到天亮，白天对着神经网络公式，脑袋却像空壳。那年，我真的快撑不下去了。

爸妈决定带我回国，休息一段时间。

飞机落地那晚，外婆亲手煮了一碗面。

不咸不淡，味道像极了童年。她把碗轻轻放在我面前，像很多年前一样说：“快趁热吃。”
我看着她弯下去的背影，眼眶突然热了。那一刻，我仿佛又回到了那个熟悉的房间，她一勺一勺喂我吃饭的样子。

我低头说：“外婆，我最近学习不太好……”
她笑了，拍拍我的手：“成绩好不好不重要，我只在乎你有没有吃饱，身体健不健康。”

那句话，我记了一辈子。

几年后，我再回国时，我们在老宅门口重逢。她比记忆中更瘦了，动作也慢了许多。她握着我的手说：“你瘦了。”
然后从怀里拿出一条金项链，放进我手心里：“以后要是外婆不在了，这个留着当个念想。”

那一刻，我不敢哭。

那是一条不算粗的金项链，却有些沉。沉的，是她一生节俭积攒的温柔，是她把牵挂偷偷收起来、藏进岁月里的方式。

那不是首饰，是她用尽一生沉默表达的爱。

她不知道，在我异国最痛的日子里，我反复梦见她。梦见她在床头给我梳头，轻声唱歌，叫我小名。
那些梦，是我唯一喘息的地方。

如今，我们在中加两地拥有几处房产，家庭资产也已上千万。但这条金项链，是我全部财富中，最不能遗失的一件。

它提醒我：
有些人活着时，你总觉得来日方长，以为可以慢慢说“谢谢”，可转眼便天各一方，连告别都来不及。

她从不曾要求我报答什么。她给了我一个无法复制的童年，也在我异国最黑暗的日子里，留下唯一温暖的回忆。而我，却在她最年迈、最需要陪伴的时光里，没能守在她身边。

现在，每当我整理药盒、打开写作软件，那条金项链就静静地躺在首饰盒的角落。

它不说话，却在提醒我：
有些爱，不必言说，却必须铭记。

它也告诉我——
那个曾在阳光午后，窝在床上抱着猫咪的小女孩，
曾被这个世界，深深地、实实在在地爱过。

The Gold Necklace and the Unfinished Goodbye

—To My Grandmother, Who Took Me In as a Child

People often say, “Ten years of life and death, two worlds apart. I don’t think of you, yet you’re never gone.”
But some farewells are already regrets long before death arrives.

I still remember that winter when I was in Canada and received the news—
My grandmother had slipped while showering. The broken glass had slashed her thigh. She bled heavily and had to be rushed to the hospital for stitches.

She was in her nineties.

I wept quietly through the night.
She had been kind and frugal all her life—gentle, hard-working, and never one to ask for much. And yet, in her final years, she was met with such pain and terror.
And me? I was oceans away. I couldn’t say a single word of comfort. I didn’t even know if she could sleep through the pain.

That moment, I understood something:
The deepest regrets in life don’t come from what we did wrong, but from what we didn’t do in time.
Some people, you assume they’ll always be there—until life forcibly separates you into two different worlds.

That night, I cried myself to sleep, dreaming of her standing in the kitchen, cooking noodles, calling me by my childhood nickname, softly saying, “Eat while it’s still hot.”

When I was little, to make it easier for me to attend school, my mom decided to send me to live with my grandmother for a while.
Back then, she and my dad were running a business, and I spent those years in my grandmother’s courtyard—a time that would become the most peaceful and deeply loved chapter of my childhood.

She combed my hair, cooked for me, fed me, reminded me to pack my bag and eat on time. At night, she would sit by the bed, humming old Fuzhou lullabies to lull me to sleep. She never said, “I love you,” but her love was in every bowl of porridge, every spoonful of soup, every warm, calloused hand on my back.

There’s one scene I remember vividly—

It was a soft, sunlit afternoon. The old house was bathed in golden warmth. I curled up on her bed, holding a yellow-and-white kitten that purred softly on my lap. One hand stroked its fur; the other held a ball of leftover yarn from her knitting. Outside, the wind played with the curtains. Inside, all you could hear was the purring and the ticking of the old wall clock.

In that moment, I felt the whole world was standing still, waiting for me to grow up.

It was the happiest, calmest, most worry-free time of my life.

And yet—I never once said “thank you.”

Later, we moved. I returned to live with my parents, and she remained in that old house. I got busy with school, exams, leaving behind the room that held my childhood. Years later, I left for Canada, while she stayed behind, guarding that table, those chairs, those same bowls and chopsticks.

From the moment I left, my life changed.

At sixteen, I began a semi-independent life. To help pay tuition, I worked as a server in a Chinese restaurant. Closing shifts often ended at 12:30 a.m., and I’d walk home alone through empty streets. My heart raced with every step.

Just blocks from Hastings Street, where the homeless still roamed in the dark, I clutched my tip book in one hand and my phone in the other, cold and trembling.
Once, I noticed a man following me.
I didn’t dare turn around. I circled two blocks before I lost him.

That night, I got home at 1 a.m. I sat by the door, still in uniform, shoes on, tears welling up in my eyes.

But I said nothing.
I didn’t tell my parents, and I certainly didn’t tell my grandmother in China.

Because I knew—
The day I left that little bed and that purring cat behind, my life had changed forever.
From “someone warms your meal for you” to “you must carry everything on your own.”

No one was waiting at home to reheat my rice.
No one—except my parents—asked, “Are you tired today?”

I had to shoulder night shifts, tuition, bus fares, loneliness, and a fear no one knew about.

And she—the one who used to trim my nails, wash my uniforms, and warm my milk—was probably still in that old house, murmuring:
“Is she eating well out there all alone?”

Then came a greater blow from fate.

At twenty-one, I was hit by a car while crossing the street. I was thrown through the air and fractured my leg. Though it wasn’t a shattering break, recovery took months. Every step tugged at my nerves. I hobbled on crutches, took painkillers, and dragged my wounded body through my AI degree.

Years later, I was admitted to UVic.
Just three courses away from graduating—I collapsed.

My memory was failing. My chest throbbed. I lay awake all night. By day, I sat through neural network lectures, my head a blank void.
The depression had come back.

My parents decided to take me back to China to rest.

The night we landed, my grandmother cooked me a bowl of noodles.

It was neither too salty nor too bland—just like the taste of childhood. She placed the bowl in front of me, just like before, and gently said,
“Eat while it’s still hot.”

I looked at her hunched back and felt tears rush to my eyes. In that moment, I was back in that room again—her feeding me, one spoonful at a time.

“I haven’t been doing well in school lately...” I whispered.
She smiled and patted my hand.
“I don’t care about grades. I just want to know you’ve eaten and that you’re healthy.”

That one sentence—I’ve remembered my whole life.

A few years later, I returned to China again. We reunited at the gate of that old house.

She was thinner than I remembered. Slower in her movements.
She looked at me and said, “You’ve lost weight.”
Then, she took a small gold necklace from her pocket and placed it in my hand.

“If one day I’m not here anymore,” she said, “keep this as something to remember me by.”

That moment, I didn’t dare cry.

The necklace was thin, but surprisingly heavy—
Heavy with the weight of a lifetime’s savings, gentleness, and love.
It wasn’t jewelry.
It was everything she’d never said out loud, folded into gold and silence.

She never knew that during my darkest days abroad, I dreamed of her constantly—
Brushing my hair, cooking congee, calling me by my nickname.

Those dreams were my only place to breathe.

Today, our family owns several properties in Canada and China. Our assets are in the millions.
But that necklace—
That is the one thing I can never afford to lose.

It reminds me:

Some people, while still alive, seem like they’ll always be there.
You think you’ll thank them one day.
You wait.
You hesitate.
Then they’re gone—and there’s no “next time.”

My grandmother never asked me for anything.
She gave me an irreplaceable childhood.
And later, when I was drowning in silence overseas, she gave me the only warmth I could hold onto.

But in her oldest, loneliest years—when she needed company the most—
I wasn’t there.

Now, whenever I open my pill box, or sit down to write, that gold necklace lies quietly in the corner of my jewelry box.

It says nothing.
But it reminds me:

Some love doesn’t need to be spoken—but it must be remembered.

And it tells me, too—

That little girl who once curled up on the bed in the afternoon sun,
holding a kitten in her arms—
She was loved.
Truly, deeply, and without question.