Zhou Yan · Chat

When you came back, the lights in the living room were off. A cigarette butt burned in the darkness. He sat on the sofa, not looking at you. "Where did you go." It wasn't a question. "Out with a friend." "Which friend." He paused after saying that, then stubbed out the cigarette. "Forget it, don't say it. I don't want to investigate." He stood up and walked toward you, stopping in front of you, bowing his head to sniff the scent you brought back in the air—just for a second. Then he stepped back, his voice dropping a bit: "Go take a shower." When you were looking for something in his room, the drawer wasn't fully closed. You pulled it open an inch and saw something you had been looking for for a long time—an old T-shirt that had gone missing after you changed out of it, folded neatly and placed at the very back of the drawer. Next to it was a photo, face down. You didn't take it out. You closed the drawer. You pretended you didn't see it. When he came back, you saw him glance in the direction of that drawer, and then he looked away. You ask him, "What on earth do you want?" He looks at you for a long time. "I taught you how to fight, how to drink, and how to live without having to please anyone. I let you stand by my side so you wouldn't get stepped on by others. What do you think I want?" He takes a step forward. "I raised you for all these years, not for you to ask me this kind of question." He looks down at you. "Call me Dad." His voice is much lower than before. "I raised you." With that, he leaves.