My parents are famous, but I can only see them on TV. They rush to the frontlines of war, claiming the environment is dangerous, and left me with my grandmother in the countryside. But later, they adopted their colleague’s daughter. They kept her by their side, compensating her for everything they owed me. She became their precious one, able to stay with Mom and Dad without the barrier of a cold screen. When they finally remembered me, I had already forgotten my feelings for them after a high fever. 0 I fell ill. It wasn’t serious, but it lasted for a long time. It all started with a bet between me and my adoptive sister. We were competing to see who could climb to the top of the mountain first. The winner would get our parents to attend their parent-teacher conference. When I finally reached the summit, exerting all my strength against the morning breeze and dew, I saw my parents and adoptive sister, the three of them smiling as they set up a tent to capture the sunrise. Seeing me arrive, Sophia grinned and said, “I only said we’d race to see who gets here first. I never specified how we’d get here.” She continued, “Emma, don’t you get it? To reach the same destination, you have to rely on your own two feet, but I have our parents to lift me up. You were destined to lose from the start.” My parents stood behind her, holding cameras. Upon hearing our conversation and realizing what had happened, they looked a bit embarrassed and were about to invite me to watch the sunrise with them. But I had already turned to leave without a second glance. “Let her go!” I heard Mom’s angry voice from behind. “Why can’t she be more understanding like Sophia? If she knew how to be close to her parents, instead of always having that cold, sullen face, we wouldn’t ignore her!” Hearing this, I couldn’t help but find it somewhat amusing. My parents always said I never knew how to soften my attitude, never knew how to be affectionate and please them. But in the fifteen years of my life that they were absent, I couldn’t even see them, let alone be close to them. How could I know how to do something no one ever taught me? After returning home, I fell ill. Although I had only been exposed to a bit of wind and dew, I developed a high fever and felt weak and dizzy. Before completely passing out, I called an ambulance for myself. Then I sank into darkness. In my unconscious state, I saw my childhood again. When I was very young, I could only see my parents on television, and that was the only place I could see them. They were nationally renowned journalists, college sweethearts with shared ideals. After graduation, they chased their common dream, running to the frontlines of various important news events. Later, they even volunteered to go abroad to war zones, living and eating with refugees devastated by war. Before they left, they took a photo. In the picture, I was still a baby, held in the arms of a smiling man and woman, the three of us nestled together happily as a family. At that time, I didn’t know that this would be the last time in my life that I would be embraced by my parents. It was also this moment that made the child in me regret and beat my chest countless times. I hated myself for not being more precocious – so that I could have known what it felt like to be in my parents’ arms. It must have been an experience worth remembering for a lifetime. But there are no “what ifs” in life. Communication wasn’t as advanced in those days, so I was left with my grandmother who lived alone in the countryside. The old lady wasn’t very good at using the mobile phone my parents had left her. At the beginning of each month, she would walk over ten miles to the post office in town, leaning on her cane, to see if there was any mail for us. When I got a bit older, she would take me with her. Before each trip, I would always put on my best clothes that I usually saved for special occasions, and wear two flowers on the neat braids Grandma had done for me. I thought my parents could see me through the letters, so I had to dress up beautifully to see them. But I never received any letters. It wasn’t until third grade, when my language teacher assigned us to write a letter to our mothers, that I suddenly realized letters were only sent one way. My parents wouldn’t suddenly appear in the post office to hear me tell them how much I missed them. Fortunately, even without letters, there was still television. My parents had been abroad for many years and hadn’t come home for the Spring Festival for seven or eight years. Occasionally, they would ask someone to bring some appliances to Grandma’s house in the old village. When that 45-inch color TV was installed in the house, it drew many villagers to come and watch. Grandma didn’t mind, inviting everyone in to watch TV together. After the antenna was set up and the TV turned on, it happened to be the evening news. After the well-dressed anchor said a few words, the scene changed, and a couple in plain clothes appeared on the screen, holding microphones. At that moment, my eyes lit up. The people in the news were my parents. They were standing in front of the smoke of war, briefly introducing the local situation and calling on the whole society to lend a hand to these refugees who had suffered undeserved disasters. I looked at their faces, much more weathered than in the photos, and walked dazedly to the TV. “Dad, Mom…” I looked up, calling out to them loudly, but got no response. 0
From then on, watching the news became my unwavering hobby. They weren’t on the news every day, but whenever they were, I would always have a good dream that night. In my dreams, my parents would take me with them, and I could go on adventures with them. They would hold me in their arms, ruffle my hair, and call me “baby.” Later, when I entered junior high school, I went to study in town. By that time, mobile phones had started to become more common. One day after school, I found that old mobile phone that hadn’t been turned on for a long time in the drawer of Grandma’s bedside table. I charged it up again and when I found the number with my parents’ names in the contacts, my heart started pounding uncontrollably. The call didn’t go through; the phone had been out of service for a long time. Later, I saved up money for a long time, reciting that number representing my parents every day. Finally, on my birthday, I gave ten dollars to the owner of the small shop at the entrance and borrowed her phone to dial that number. The phone rang for a long time, and just when I thought no one would answer, that gentle male voice that had been lingering in my dreams day and night sounded. “Dad!” I exclaimed his name excitedly, telling him I was his baby. But he was silent for a long time, as if he couldn’t remember that he had a baby back in his hometown. When he spoke again, his voice was a bit hurried. He said, “Baby, Dad’s busy with work. I’ll contact you later. Be good and listen to your grandmother back home.” He hung up without waiting for my reply. I held the phone, warmed by the heat from my ear, feeling a bit disappointed. This was the first time I had spoken to my father in my memory. A child’s intuition is actually keen, and on that day, I suddenly realized something. My parents didn’t necessarily miss me as much as I missed them. From then on, I still couldn’t break the habit of waiting for the news in front of the TV, but I was no longer as excited as before when waiting. Once, I had fantasized that I was a loved child, thinking that Mom and Dad also wanted to see me through the screen. But now, I finally understood that they probably didn’t love me. To them, I was a strange existence that hadn’t left much impression due to the long separation. 0
The turning point came when I was in high school. At that time, I was buried in my studies every day, hoping to enter the news industry for college. High school required boarding, so naturally, I no longer had the chance to watch the news every day. One day after self-study, I saw Grandma standing at the classroom door, leaning on her cane. She had even put on new clothes for the occasion. As soon as she saw me, she excitedly said, “Baby, your parents are back. Let’s go meet them.” At that moment, the books in my hands fell to the ground, and the whole world was filled with a ringing sound. I was going to see my parents. They were finally no longer just cold images existing on the screen. I could throw myself into their arms and act spoiled, or hold their hands, sit beside them, and show them all the awards I had received over the years. I grew up in the countryside and didn’t have any special talents. These certificates praising me for being top of the class every year were the only things I could proudly show them. I wanted to know if they would be proud of me. I hurriedly followed Grandma to the bus station. While waiting, I fixed my hair countless times. I also quietly bought a pack of wet wipes to clean my face. Using the reflection from the steel armrests of the station seats, I kept adjusting my appearance over and over, constantly regretting that I should have washed my hair before coming out. I was afraid that my first impression on them would be bad, but then I thought that since they were my parents, they shouldn’t mind. By then I had entered puberty, and my vague sense of self-esteem had already taken root. I thought, since my parents had neglected me so much when I was little, when I met them, I should also act a bit reserved. That way, we’d be even. Grandma and I ended up not being able to wait for my parents. After sitting at the station until late at night, my dad’s friend came to find Grandma. He said my dad had called him, saying they had landed in the capital and would only stay for a week. After finishing their handover, they would set off again, so there was no need to come back to the old home. They told us not to wait anymore. I listened to this news in a daze, my head buzzing. I felt they would indeed do something like this. I just felt a bit of contempt for them in my heart. I thought, Grandma is old, and even I know to be filial to her, but they let their own parents’ expectations fall through time and time again. Perhaps they weren’t as wonderful as I had imagined. Perhaps… they weren’t even as good as me. After returning home, I developed a high fever. During my illness, I learned from my uncle who came to visit me about the reason for their return to the country this time. The war zone they had been in was completely destroyed by artillery fire. The attack came too suddenly, and the journalists were slow to evacuate. Many people were injured. My parents, in order to record the city under artillery fire in the first place, forcibly delayed until the last moment. Their best friend – the photographer who had followed them through life and death – also lost his life because of this. Bearing the life and expectations of their friend, they were even more unwilling to stop. After returning to the country for recuperation, they quickly geared up to return to the front lines of the war. As if to express their guilt, they had someone buy new phones for Grandma and me. They even took the initiative to call me. But we were indeed strangers, and after exchanging a few pleasantries on the phone, we had nothing more to say. Before hanging up, Dad told me to study hard, saying that Mom and Dad were waiting for me at the front. But my attention was all on the clear voice of a little girl calling “Dad!” from their end of the phone. Yes, they had adopted their colleague’s daughter. That girl, five months younger than me, was very pitiful. Her name was Sophia. Her mother had passed away when she was very young, and now she had lost her father too. My parents took her in. War is cruel and dangerous, yet they kept Sophia by their side.
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