It is only when a person loses a beloved one that they truly come of age.
I never thought that the year I legally became an adult would also be the year I underwent the ceremony of passage of adulthood.
Receiving the emergency call, I thought I was well-prepared. I had imagined this situation a few times as soon as I knew Dad was diagnosed with cancer, but at that moment, when my brain was blank and tears ran out uncontrollably, I finally realised no matter how much one had prepared, one still could not stand the news of love’s leaving.
The moment I stepped into the internal medicine ward; a heavy silence enveloped me. Behind the curtain, my father lay on the hospital bed, an oxygen mask obscuring his familiar features. A nasogastric tube snaked down, resting against the stubble that would never again see the sun. His hands, bound in restraint from restless struggles, lay limply by his sides as if surrendering to an unseen force.
“Dad, I'm back,” I choked out, the words barely escaping my trembling lips. Unable to control my emotions, tears streamed down my cheeks, they fell onto the orange blanket that seemed to absorb the weight of my despair, dropping onto the orange blanket and the hand I used to touch my father's face.
In that heart-wrenching moment, the truth settled over me like a shroud: he was truly slipping away, and I was acutely aware that this was my ultimate rite of passage into adulthood.
In my second year of middle school, everything changed when my father was diagnosed with terminal cancer. I remember the day vividly: My mother returned home, her face streaked with tears, and she enveloped me in a tight embrace, her sobs echoing in the silence. Back then, I still thought that death was far away from him and refused to think about it. Each time chemotherapy worked its magic, and he seemed revitalized, I let myself believe, if only for a moment, that he was just my spirited dad again—his laughter drowning out the patient he had become. However, as the years dragged on, the relentless march of the disease became undeniable. The targeted therapies that once held promise failed one after another, he grew weaker with each passing day, spent more and more time lost in sleep, and even when he slept, low moans escaped his lips. Sitting beside him, I kept hearing him breathing heavily but aerially, which made me recall the words describing the exhalation of the dying person in many novels, “the broken blower.”
I stood by his bed, holding him steady as my mother quietly changed his diaper. She settled into the chair beside him, and I took her sore arms in my hands, kneading gently at the muscles that had grown weary from the weight of caring for a man twenty kilograms heavier than herself. “I'm sorry. As you're his daughter, you shouldn't clean up his mess.”
The first time I saw my father's private parts was that morning when his condition took a sudden turn for the worse. He vomited up his breakfast and spoke in a voice so frail it was barely a whisper, he kept repeating, “I'm sorry, I'm sorry....” My father leaned on my mother's shoulder; I saw the tears spill down his cheeks—tears that shattered something deep within me.
In the afternoon, on his way back from the living room to his bedroom, he paused multiple times, each step a monumental effort. I, supporting him on the left, glanced over to my mother, who was steadying him on the right. “Dad might have pooped his pants.” Mom didn’t take me seriously; she believed he would voice his needs if he could. It wasn't until the acrid smell began to seep into the air that reality set in. For the first time during his illness, I witnessed my mother’s frustration break through her calm. “Why didn’t you say something?” she exclaimed, her voice a mix of anger and desperation. I stood beside them, my heart heavy with understanding that he no longer had the strength to speak.
That was the first time I helped my father clean his excrement. When I was cleaning, I could feel his resistance clearly. I always knew he was sensitive about his reputation and loved me too deeply to accept me doing this for him.
Mom paused, turning to me with an expression that said everything. She lay on my shoulder, crying. I felt her tears soaking into my shirt, but I fought to hold back my own until night fell. Hiding under my quilt, biting the blanket, I didn’t want to wake anyone; the last thing I wanted was to share my grief. I told myself not to cry out loud while flipping through the birthday cards Dad had written to me. I cried with all my might. As I read his familiar handwriting, the tears flowed freely, consuming me with a force I had never experienced before. My body curled up on the bed like a dehydrated shrimp, but I still could not release my sorrow.
The next day, I arrived at the hospital before dawn, recounting our memories over and over beside Dad, whispering the words I never had the chance to say. Dad lay there, comatose and unresponsive, yet I clutched his hand tightly, hoping that somewhere deep inside, he could hear me. As a child, I was acutely aware of the age difference between my parents, and it made me sensitive to the teasing from classmates who would mockingly say my mom was a flower stuck in cow dung. Because of that, I hated it when Dad appeared in front of my classmates. One year, the school was going to have an off-campus outing, and Dad got up early to drive me to the meeting point. Although he seemed cheerful as he dropped me off, he quickly found an excuse to leave. I brushed off his departure, excitedly chatting with my friends as they arrived, completely immersed in the moment. When I got home, Mom secretly told me that Dad had been watching me at the meeting point all along hiding behind a tree; he hadn't left. His heart was heavy with concern; he wanted to ensure I was safe but feared the embarrassment of being seen by my classmates. Nevertheless, not only did I not thank him, but I also wished he would just disappear and spare me the shame.
After recounting this memory, I said to him, “Thank you for being a part of my life. Thank you for loving me, caring for me, and loving me, who did not deserve your love.” His eyes remained closed, but he squeezed my hand tightly with great effort and let out a single syllable of protest. His other hand tried to pull me into his embrace but slid down my back. I leaned lightly against his chest; at that moment, the weight of unspoken words pressed down on me. I recalled how he had always dreamed of seeing me graduate, a milestone he had anticipated with so much pride. I used to describe my dream to him, but now it seemed to be only a dream, for he would no longer participate in my life.
On the third day, as soon as I reached the ward door, I heard his painful groans. After the doctor issued the critical notice, he hadn't woken up and rarely made any sound, as if he still longed for his dream and refused to wake up. Pulling back the curtain, I saw his mouth wide open, filled with blood. Blood bubbles filled his mouth, from the depths of his throat to his lips. He groaned in pain, but when he felt my touch, he turned his mouth toward me, releasing a weak, desperate sound. The smell of blood mixed with the scent of medicine emanated from his mouth. At that moment, I thought, isn’t this the smell of death? A memory hit me immediately. That was after I chose to study literature. I chatted with Dad that day, mentioning that perhaps I would spend all my money on my dream but eventually fail. He answered me gently and patted my head, “If that day comes, I will give you monetary help. So don’t be anxious, just do whatever you want with striving for excellence.” His support encouraged me so much; however, while facing the death of the most imperative person in my life, the thing I could do was only say how much I loved him repeatedly.
On the day he passed away, everything seemed early pre-arranged. Ironically, our personalities are so alike, yet it was only during his final days that I truly felt his thoughts. His despair, sadness, reluctance, and pain were all reflected in my heart like a mirror. As the last moments approached, I found myself speechless, unsure if he still drew breath. I promised to take care of Mom and shoulder his responsibilities, telling him not to worry.
When my sisters arrived at the ward, the doctor delivered the sombre news of his death. They cried in a mess while I stood quietly by, like an outsider.
When I was ten, I stumbled upon my parents' secret. I had never given much thought to Dad’s previous marriage until we returned to his hometown. I saw that all his relatives, including my four sisters, gave my mom a cold look. In a traditional Taiwanese rural family, even in the 21st century, divorce is still seen as a disgrace to the family. The disapproving stares pierced through me, making me acutely aware of the family’s silent judgments and the hidden complexities of our lives. I tried to defeat and protect my mother once; however, it seemed like I did the wrong thing because of “the disrespectful attitude” toward relatives. My father didn’t say anything to me then, but I eavesdropped on the adults' conversation, teasing him for educating a rude daughter. Looking at them humiliating Dad, I guess I couldn’t forget it forever. My father trapped himself in the concept of being family-oriented, which deprived his agency to fight back, but I thought I was different from him, I wasn’t going to follow this regulation when growing up.
Mom and I chanted prayers for Dad in the morgue, two living people accompanying the newly deceased, but we felt even colder than the corpse. Sisters crying out loud disappeared after paramedics left. At that moment, staring at the fabric that veiled my father with the ode of rebirth, I dedicated myself to becoming someone who could prevent my mom from being jeopardised by anyone.
On the day of the funeral arrangements, the house buzzed with my sisters and relatives, their presence suffocating. Mom and I sat in the corner, feeling a dozen pairs of eyes like vipers, watching us darkly. Immersed in her grief, Mom struggled to focus, so I took it upon myself to jot down everything that needed attention—when to speak when to show modesty, and when to remain silent. I needed to use rationality and composure as weapons to uphold Dad's dignity and show those relatives that, in their eyes, this illegitimate daughter was more well-mannered than her sisters. My father was not the failed father and husband they whispered about; he deserved better than their scorn.
After the meeting, the relatives gathered around me, each with a comment:
“When are you going to graduate? Don’t you think you spend too much time studying?”
“So, as the tradition, since you are not married, you need to take your father’s place to sacrifice the ancestors every day.”
“Your dad wanted a boy when he had you. Who knew it would be another girl?”
“Do you know how much he was disappointed when he saw you were a girl?”
I've never felt inferior to boys. Girls would never be incapable if boys were capable. However, on that day, looking at the crowd of relatives, at the sisters lecturing my mom as equals, and at all the funeral rituals in Taoism regulated that only the eldest sister could perform, a wave of sadness washed over me.
Yeah, why wasn't I born a boy? If I were a man, I wouldn't need to pretend to be modest, wouldn't need to wear a mask of sensibility, wouldn't need to use praise of myself as a harmless rebellion against the relatives who oppressed my mother and me.
The truth is, I'm neither calm nor rational. I want to stand up and shout, tell everyone to shut up, make a big scene, and scold them harshly. After all, I'm my father's daughter—why should a bunch of people invade our lives? They rarely visited him while he was alive, but now that he's gone, they pretend to be sad, put on a show, and steal the grief that belongs to Mom and me. If I were a man, I could navigate my father's funeral rituals with ease. I could stand up for my mother against the relatives who oppressed her, and people would commend me as a responsible son, not criticize me as a rude daughter.
I looked up at my father's portrait—the one I had taken of him, still smiling brightly. I suddenly felt an intense desire to own a phallus.
I laughed suddenly, feeling a strange conflict; here I was, someone who prided myself on being a “feminist,” momentarily resenting my own gender. I wanted to rebel against a patriarchal society, to assert that women should enjoy all the same rights as men, but I couldn't even stand up against my own family. I'm not small; I'm just a coward. I'm afraid of disappointing my father and of my mother being scolded because of me. I vowed not to be imprisoned in the notion of Chinese parental respect like Dad, but the result was, that I also became a vulnerable victim of it. I felt like a timid adult, learning to compromise, to settle, to live in fear. Was this the price of growing up? If it meant surrendering my spirit, then what was the point?
Watching the incense smoke rise to my father's smile, I forced myself to mimic him, smiling brightly. However, through the glass reflection, I caught a glimpse of a mocking, painful smile instead.
The funeral for my father was solemn and simple.
Everything was fine, except for the part where my sister insisted that her child lead the singing of a song from Tiktok.
When it came time to view my father's body for the last time, I made a promise to him once more.
“I will take care of Mom for you, and I won't let her get hurt. I will graduate well and become someone useful, just like you hoped.
I will take on your responsibilities. I....” I suddenly couldn’t continue speaking. A wave of fear and uncertainty spread over me. I sighed and, in a softer voice, continued, “Actually, I'm really scared.”
I’m scared I won’t do well, scared I won’t be able to protect Mom, scared that I’m just a useless student.
He didn’t answer me—maybe he didn’t want me to grow up so fast.
The last procedure in the Taoism funeral was to send the body into the incinerator. When the family followed the coffin by their eyes and yelled, “Dad, the fire is coming, run quickly!”, I turned away, unable to hold back my tears. Closing my eyes, for the first time since his death, I let my grief spill over, crying out loud in a corner.
Amid the darkness, it felt as if all my strength had been drained; all my energy turned into tears that flowed down my bewildered cheeks.
At that moment, I saw the park where we had gathered for a middle school trip. It was empty now, but there stood Dad in front of the tour bus. I was wearing mourning clothes and shouted, “Dad!” He turned around and smiled at me, just like in the photo on the altar.
As I ran toward him, he climbed aboard the bus, and it began to move. I collapsed to the ground, sobbing, the heartache hitting me anew, just as it had when I learned he had been watching me from behind that tree all those years ago.
