Holding the Line for a Hundred-Year Wish

When the phone rang, I was resting on the sofa. That afternoon, I’d helped my neighbor, Old Zhang, carry two bags of cement. Twenty years ago, two bags would have been nothing. But I can't do it anymore; my chest felt tight as soon as I finished, and I had to lie down for half an hour just to catch my breath.

I saw it was my mother calling and answered immediately.

"Hey, Mom."

"Why didn't you come over today?" Her voice was bright—you’d never guess she’s a ninety-year-old woman.

"I’m a bit tired today. I’ll come tomorrow."

"Are you feeling unwell again? How many times have I told you? You have to take your heart medicine on time; don't forget it just because you're busy. I’ve made some white fungus soup; I’m saving some for you."

I murmured an agreement and hung up, staring at the ceiling in a daze for a long time.

My mother is exactly ninety this year. Her hearing is sharp, her vision is clear, she cooks and does her own laundry, and she lives on the third floor, going down for a walk twice a day. When the sixty- and seventy-year-olds in the neighborhood see her, they still have to call out, "Hello, Auntie." She walks a bit slowly now, but her back is straight as a rod, and her spirit is stronger than mine.

Last month for her birthday, I ordered a cake. She complained for ages that it was too expensive. But when it came time to blow out the candles, she closed her eyes and made a very serious wish. I asked her what it was, but she wouldn't say. Later, my sister whispered to me: "Mom said her wish was to live another ten years—to reach a hundred—so she can see her grandson get married."

Hearing that, I couldn't quite describe the feeling in my heart.

Ten more years and she’d be a hundred. But what about me? I’m sixty-seven this year. I’ve had high blood pressure for over fifteen years, and my heart isn't great. I was hospitalized last year; the doctor said it was early-stage coronary heart disease and told me to rest, not to overwork myself, and to avoid getting agitated or angry. Easy for him to say. As long as you're alive, how can you not worry about things?

I’m not an unfilial son. I’m not ashamed to say that for most of my life, the person I’ve cared about most is my mother. My father left us early—he passed when I was forty, twenty-seven years ago now. My mother raised my sister and me all by herself. I know exactly how much she suffered. When she was young, she worked three shifts at the textile mill; she’d come home from a night shift and still have to cook for us and wash our clothes. We were poor back then; she couldn’t bear to spend on food or clothes for herself, saving every morsel of good food for us.

So, I told myself long ago: in this life, I must treat my mother well.

And these past years, I truly have tried my best. My sister married into a family far away and only comes back a few times a year. I’m the one nearby; it's only a twenty-minute ride on my e-bike. I go there basically every other day to buy her groceries, pay her utilities, and keep her company. On weekends, my wife cooks a few dishes to bring over, and the whole family eats together at Mom’s.

It sounds pretty good, doesn't it?

But I know in my heart that my body is declining year by year.

During that hospital stay last year, I didn't tell a soul. I told my wife not to say a word to Mom because I didn't want her to worry. For those five days, I told Mom I was away on a business trip. On the day I was discharged, the doctor called me into his office and was blunt: "In your condition, you can't keep ignoring this. If your blood pressure isn't controlled, it puts a huge burden on your heart. If you keep going like this, a heart attack or stroke is a real possibility. Quit smoking, quit drinking, eat less greasy food, don't stay up late, and don't overwork yourself."

I nodded, but all I could think was: Don't overwork myself? Then who’s going to take care of things at Mom's?

I’m not complaining. I just feel... how did life end up like this? I’m not so old that I can’t move, but I’ve truly started to be afraid. I’m not afraid of dying; to be honest, at sixty-seven, I’ve seen what there is to see, and it wouldn't exactly be a "premature" death. What I fear is—if I go before my mother, what will happen to her?

Can you imagine that scene? A ninety-year-old woman standing in a funeral parlor, seeing off her own son. She buried her husband when she was young, and in her old age, she has to bury her child. The people closest to her in this world, leaving one by one. She’d be left all alone. Who would look after her? My sister is far away and has her own family; she can't be there every day. A nursing home? Mom doesn't say it, but I know she wouldn't want that. She’s been strong-willed her whole life; her biggest fear is being a burden to others, even if those "others" are her own children.

Sometimes I think about it and can't sleep. Lying in bed, listening to the thumping of my own heart—sometimes fast, sometimes slow, sometimes skipping a beat. I think to myself: Heart, you’d better behave. Just hold on for a few more years, just until Mom is gone. Once she’s gone, it doesn't matter what happens to me.

It might sound like bad luck to say it aloud, but that’s truly how I feel.

My wife knows what’s on my mind. She doesn't say it to my face, but I don't know how many times she’s cried behind my back. Once, I woke up in the middle of the night and heard her whispering on the phone in the kitchen. I don't know who she was talking to: "His heart is completely centered on his mother; he doesn't care about his own health at all. If I say a word, he gets frustrated with me. It's not that I don't want him to be a good son, I’m just afraid he’s going to wear himself out until he collapses..."

I didn't say anything, just quietly went back to bed. I felt a pang of guilt. My wife has been with me for nearly forty years, and she hasn't had many easy days. When I was young and working in the factory, the pay was low, and she lived frugally with me. Later, when I was laid off and started driving freight, out in the wind and rain, she raised the child and managed the household alone. Now that we’ve finally retired and should be enjoying some peace, she has to worry about me and my mother. She’s never resented me, but I know she’s tired.

This past Lunar New Year, our whole family had dinner at Mom’s. She was in high spirits and insisted on making the dumplings herself. I couldn't stop her, so I just sat in the kitchen to keep her company. While she rolled out the dough, she chatted with me—all the old stories. Stories about when I was little, about my dad when he was alive, about her younger days at the mill. I’ve heard these stories a hundred times, but I still listened, nodding along now and then.

"When you were little, you were a real handful," she said with a smile, her hands never stopping. "You climbed a tree to reach a bird's nest, fell, and broke your arm. I cried the whole night out of fear."

"I remember. You took me to the hospital, and when the doctor set the bone, I wailed like a stuck pig."

"You certainly did. We were poor then; the money for the doctor was borrowed from your aunt." She sighed. "People grow old in the blink of an eye, don't they? You were only seven or eight then, and now you’re sixty-seven. Your hair is all white."

I instinctively touched my head and smiled. "Mom, you’re ninety. How could I not be old?"

She stopped what she was doing and looked at me. I can’t describe that look, but it made my heart ache. "Don't keep worrying about me, you hear? Your own health is what matters. I’ve lived a long life; I’ve had my fill. If you ruin your health for my sake, I won’t be able to close my eyes in peace when I go."

"Mom, what are you saying—"

"I’m serious," she interrupted, her voice suddenly turning firm. "Don't think I don't know. Your heart isn't good, and your blood pressure is high. You thought you could hide it from me? Your wife told me."

I was stunned. My wife and her big mouth...

"Don't blame her; I forced her to tell me." Mom looked back down at the dough, her voice much softer. "You’re my own flesh and blood. If something is wrong with you, how could I not know?"

That night, I ate two plates of dumplings and had half a glass of liquor. For once, Mom didn't stop me from drinking. When I left, she walked me to the door and took my hand. Her palm was dry and warm.

"You stay healthy and live well, do you hear? If you dare to go before me, I won't forgive you."

I smiled and nodded. Walking down the stairs, I nearly burst into tears.

Actually, I understand why Mom wants to live another ten years. It’s not that she’s afraid of death; she just can't bear to let go. She can’t let go of this family, of me, of my sister, of her grandchildren. All her concerns in this life are tied to us. As long as she is alive, this family remains "home." If she goes, the family scatters—at least, that’s how she feels.

But I want to tell her too: Mom, I can’t bear to let go of you, either.

I’m not afraid of death; I’m afraid of your grief. I’m afraid of you, with your white hair, having to bury me, your black-haired son. I’m afraid your final years won’t be peaceful. I’m afraid of you being all alone in this world.

Sometimes I think the cruelest thing in this world is this "race to leave first" between parents and children. I want to leave after you because I don't want you to suffer. You want to leave after me because you don't want me to bear the pain of losing a mother. We are both thinking of the other, but neither of us can make the choice for the other.

Life still has to be lived day by day.

I take my medicine on time now. I’ve quit smoking, and I basically don't drink anymore. I used to smoke two packs a day; now I don't touch a single one. The doctor said to stay active, so I walk for half an hour every morning and another half hour after dinner. I used to love braised pork belly, but now my wife makes me steamed fish and sautéed greens, and I’ve grown used to it.

I know that every extra day I live is another day of happiness for my mother. Living well is the greatest act of filial piety I can show her.

My sister called last month and said she wants to transfer her job back here to be closer to Mom and to help share the load. I told her not to cause such a fuss, that her job there is good and moving would be a hassle. She said, "Brother, stop trying to be a hero. You’re nearly seventy; do you still think you’re a young lad?"

I didn't say anything more. If she moves back, it would be good to have the help.

A few days ago, I went to see Mom and brought her a newly bought padded winter coat. The weather is turning cold, and her old one was years old and had gone stiff. She grumbled about wasting money, but she tried it on and it fit perfectly. She looked at herself in the mirror, looking quite pleased.

"Does it look good?" she asked.

"It looks great. You look good in anything, Mom."

"That mouth of yours—just like your father’s back then, always knowing how to coax people." She scolded me with a smile, then suddenly said, "Your complexion looks much better lately. You’ve put some weight back on your face."

"Of course, I’m eating my wife’s cooking every day. I’m very healthy."

"That’s good." She nodded and sat on the sofa, patting the spot next to her. "Come, sit. I want to show you something."

She pulled out an old tin box. Inside was a stack of old photographs. There were pictures of me as a child, my father when he was young, and her on her wedding day. There was also a family portrait taken the year before my father passed. The photos had yellowed and the corners were curled, but she had preserved them meticulously.

"Look at this one," she pointed. "Taken when you were three, at Zhongshan Park. You were sitting on that stone lion, crying your eyes out because you were scared, and your dad was behind you, holding you up."

I took the photo. It was blurry and hard to see clearly. But I could imagine the scene—the young father, the young mother, and a crying little boy. Things were so good then; you didn't have to think about anything, didn't have to worry about a thing.

"Mom, keep these safe. I’ll find someone to scan them and make digital copies to put on your phone, so you can see them whenever you want."

"I don't understand that 'digital' stuff, but you go ahead." She put the photos back one by one, closed the tin box, and cradled it in her arms. "These things are the most valuable possessions I have in this life."

Watching her hold that tin box, I suddenly realized she isn't actually that strong. She’s just an ordinary old woman, afraid of loneliness, afraid of loss, afraid of the people she cares about leaving one by one. She wants to live another ten years not because she craves the good things of this world, but because there are still people in this world she cannot let go of.

So, I will live well.

She lives to a hundred, and I live to seventy-seven. Ten years—not too long, not too short. As long as I am alive, I will make sure she eats well, dresses well, and stays happy. If she wants to live to a hundred, I will walk with her to a hundred. I’ll go as far as I can, for as long as I can.

As for how long this heart of mine can hold out, that’s up to Heaven.

I have only one thought: In front of my mother, I must remain standing. I cannot fall, and I cannot let her see me fall.

That is enough.