Font Size:
“Hello, Mr. Zhuang, I am Zhuang Zi’ang’s homeroom teacher. I have something very serious to discuss with you.”
Zhang Zhiyuan, deciding that the truth could no longer be hidden, dialed the number.
No matter how irresponsible Zhuang Wen Zhao was, he was still Zhuang Zi’ang’s father.
He had the right to know.
At that moment, Zhuang Wen Zhao was seated at a mahjong table. Annoyed at the interruption, he answered impatiently.
“Why does your school have so many problems? Get to the point; I’m busy! Eight tiles—don’t touch them! I’m about to win.”
Hearing the clatter of tiles in the background, Zhang Zhiyuan knew this wouldn’t be an easy conversation. He kept his words brief.
“Please come to the city center hospital immediately. Zhuang Zi’ang is in Room 816 on the eighth floor of the inpatient building.”
“Hospital? What happened to him?” Zhuang Wen Zhao asked, barely interested.
“You’ll find out when you get here. The doctor will explain everything.”
“I don’t have time right now. I’ll come at six-thirty.”
Before Zhang Zhiyuan could respond, Zhuang Wen Zhao hung up.
His winning streak was more important.
With a scoff, he grumbled to himself. The teacher was making a mountain out of a molehill. A minor issue could wait a couple of days, right?
If it was really serious, some over-the-counter medicine should do. Why rush to the city center hospital? Did they think medical care was free?
As the dial tone echoed in his ear, Zhang Zhiyuan sighed helplessly.
Zi’ang, may you be born into a happy family in your next life.
The setting sun cast golden light through the hospital window, offering the cold room a fleeting warmth.
Lin Mu Shi sat beside Zhuang Zi’ang, listening to his corny jokes, exaggerating her laughter to keep his spirits up.
“These jokes are awful. Where did you even hear them?”
“From Xiao Yudie. I thought they were terrible too, but they made me happy.”
Just then, the door swung open. Zhuang Wen Zhao entered, followed by Zhang Zhiyuan.
Zhuang Zi’ang’s pupils contracted. His smile vanished.
Frowning, Zhuang Wen Zhao glanced at the girl beside his son and scoffed. “If he has a beautiful girl sitting with him, laughing so happily, what could possibly be wrong?”
“Mr. Zhang, did you tell him?” Zhuang Zi’ang asked.
Zhang Zhiyuan shook his head. “Not yet, but this can’t be hidden any longer. I called Doctor Chen Dexiu. He’ll explain everything.”
Zhuang Zi’ang nodded silently. It was time.
Zhuang Wen Zhao was restless, irritated at being dragged away from his game.
As they waited for Doctor Chen Dexiu, he continued to grumble.
“Real men can handle a little pain. Just tough it out!”
“I work hard every day to support this family, and all you do is cause trouble.”
“How much is this hospital stay going to cost? You’re not expecting me to pay, are you?”
Zhuang Zi’ang chuckled bitterly. “Dad, I remember when Zhuang Yuhang had a cold and fever, you stayed by his bedside for three days without leaving.”
“Yuhang is still young. How old are you?” Zhuang Wen Zhao snapped.
“Do you know, back then, I was really envious of him?”
“I envied him for having a father. Because sometimes, it feels like I don’t.”
“A child without a father isn’t even allowed to be sick.”
His voice was quiet, yet it carried a deep sorrow.
There had been a time when Zhuang Zi’ang believed that if he studied hard and helped more around the house, he might earn a shred of his father’s love.
It wasn’t until later that he realized—he had been chasing something he would never have.
What he longed for but could never obtain was something Zhuang Yuhang had been given from birth.
Life had never been fair.
There is no greater sorrow than a heart that has died. And now, with no expectations left, he felt free.
Zhuang Wen Zhao checked his watch. “When is that doctor coming? My time is valuable. I don’t have time for your complaints.”
He dug into his pocket, pulling out loose change from the mahjong table.
“If this is about money, this is all I have. If it’s not enough, figure it out yourself. Consider this a lesson—don’t run to the hospital for every little thing. This place is a money pit.”
As he rambled, the door opened again. Doctor Chen Dexiu entered, visibly fatigued from an afternoon surgery.
Zhang Zhiyuan introduced him. “Dr. Chen, this is Zhuang Zi’ang’s father.”
Doctor Chen Dexiu gave Zhuang Wen Zhao a long, disdainful look before speaking coldly. “In thirty years of practicing medicine, I’ve never seen a father as irresponsible as you.”
“Watch your mouth, old man, or I’ll file a complaint against you,” Zhuang Wen Zhao snapped.
Doctor Chen Dexiu ignored him. Pulling out a stack of papers, he handed them over. “This is your son’s diagnosis. Read it. If you don’t understand, I’ll explain.”
Zhuang Wen Zhao skimmed the papers.
Then his gaze froze.
The words leaped out at him—harsh, cruel, undeniable.
His casual demeanor evaporated.
“Doctor, this must be a mistake, right?” His voice shook.
Doctor Chen Dexiu tugged at his white coat. “Do I look like I’m joking?”
Panic set in. “My son is only eighteen! Are you sure? Could this be a misdiagnosis?”
Doctor Chen’s tone was laced with sarcasm. “If you think it is, feel free to file a complaint.”
Zhuang Wen Zhao’s mind reeled. For the first time, he was at a loss.
He had always neglected Zhuang Zi’ang, but this was still his son. His blood ran through this boy’s veins.
No father could remain indifferent upon hearing such news.
“When did this happen? Why am I only hearing about it now?” His voice cracked.
Zhuang Zi’ang’s expression was unreadable. “The day I was diagnosed, I called you. But I distracted you from your game. I’m really sorry.”
A memory surfaced—over a month ago, Zhuang Zi’ang had indeed called, saying he had hospital results and needed Xu Hui’s phone number.
At the time, Zhuang Wen Zhao had been losing at mahjong and dismissed him with a few careless words.
He had ignored his own son’s terminal diagnosis.
“Why didn’t you say anything when you got home?” His voice wavered.
“I did. I bought a cake that day. Within two minutes of walking through the door, you slapped me so hard I bled. Then you kicked me out.”
His tone was eerily calm.
But to those listening, it was suffocating.
Zhuang Wen Zhao stared at his own hand, the very one that had shattered his son’s last hope.
No wonder Zi’ang had changed, as if he were already gone.
“Zi’ang… I was wrong. I didn’t know you were sick.” His eyes reddened.
Zhuang Zi’ang smiled faintly.
“Dad, you don’t need to apologize. I don’t blame you anymore.”
“Because I stopped expecting anything from you a long time ago.”
It was as if the person standing in front of him was merely a stranger.