Live for Myself

As the plane landed at the airport, a gentle announcement came from the flight attendant: "Please take all your belongings and prepare to disembark." I looked down at the gift box in my hands—it was the birthday present I had carefully chosen abroad: a fountain pen engraved with my father's name. The pen's deep black body felt steady and dignified, just like the image of him I once held in my heart—reliable and solemn. I had rushed back from abroad two weeks early for my father's 60th birthday. I wanted to surprise him, so I didn't call ahead. After leaving the airport, I pulled my suitcase and took a cab straight home. On the way, I imagined my father's face when he saw me—maybe so surprised he'd be speechless, or smiling as he patted my shoulder and said, "Melody, you're back." The car stopped at the doorstep. I took a deep breath and pushed open the front door. The living room was as lively as a festival, with relatives gathered around the sofa and coffee table, laughter rolling through the air. Sunflower seeds, candies, and fruit were laid out on the table, with the gentle aroma of tea drifting through the room. Just as I was about to call out 'Dad,' his voice drifted over from the crowd. "Mike is the filial one. He knows to call me every day, unlike Melody, who I don't see all year—as if I'm not even her father." My steps froze on the spot. The gift box in my hands suddenly felt unbearably heavy, and my fingertips grew cold. The relatives heard the noise and all turned their heads to look at me. My father's smile froze for a moment, but he didn't stand up. "Melody? Why are you back?" His tone was flat, even tinged with a hint of impatience, without a trace of surprise. "Dad, today's your birthday. I came back especially to be with you." I handed him the gift, my voice trembling a little. Father took it and casually set it aside, as if it were just an ordinary package. He then turned to the relatives and said, "Look at her—coming back without telling anyone, so thoughtless." I stood there, watching him and the relatives continue praising how dutiful Mike is, how busy he is with work but still never forgets to care for the family. Those words felt like tiny ice picks, stabbing into my heart again and again. Suddenly, I felt like an outsider, even my breathing becoming awkward. The lively chatter in the living room had nothing to do with me—I was just a stranger who had suddenly barged in. The gift box in my hand had lost all the warmth it held when I was about to give it. Back in my room, I dropped my luggage carelessly and collapsed onto the bed. The chandelier above flickered twice, as if mocking my miserable state. From outside the window came the laughter of the neighbors' children, but their voices sounded muffled and far away, as if behind a thick pane of glass. Tossing and turning, I just couldn't fall asleep. My mind kept replaying those days of preparing for the birthday banquet. To book the hotel my father loved most, I stayed up three nights straight, comparing more than a dozen menus. It was a place my father often went to when he was younger; later, as prices went up, our family rarely visited. I thought, turning sixty is a big milestone—I have to make him happy. I even flew to a neighboring city to find the famous old chef known for his braised pork. He had been retired for many years, and it took me nearly a whole afternoon of persistent persuasion to convince him to come out of retirement. On the train back, I clutched the recipe the chef gave me, my heart full of hope. For the birthday banquet, I carefully picked out the best cigarettes, alcohol, candies, and tea. Just for the alcohol, I visited five specialty shops and sampled over a dozen bottles before settling on my father's favorite white liquor. The candies and tea leaves were also carefully selected, each one carrying my sincere feelings. The night before, I was in the kitchen all night until dawn. I made his favorite three-flavor dumplings and braised pork, the dishes he loves most. To make the taste more authentic, I kept adjusting the heat, my fingers reddened by oil splashes. Even when my back ached with exhaustion, I kept thinking about how happy Father would be to see this. Maybe he'd smile and say, 'Melody's cooking keeps getting better.' Just the thought of it made me quietly smile. But what about Mike? He only called once, saying he was too busy at work to come back and asked me not to trouble myself. "Sis, please take care of Dad's birthday banquet. I can't get away from this project, but I'll bring you a gift when I get back." On the phone, Mike's voice sounded overly sweet. "Got it, work hard." I even smiled and said that to him at the time, without giving it much thought. I only realize now that in Dad's eyes, one caring word from Mike outweighs all the effort I put in. That morning, I brought out the braised pork I had made. Dad took a bite, frowned, and said, 'Why doesn't this taste as good as what Mike made? The braised pork he brought last time was really fragrant.' The plate in my hand almost slipped and fell to the floor. Mike had never once cooked for Father; he barely ever stepped into the kitchen. The so-called 'braised pork' was just something he bought from the supermarket, still half-wrapped in its packaging. But Father was determined to believe Mike. In his eyes, Mike was always the thoughtful, filial son, while no matter how much I did, it was never enough. Thinking about this, tears welled up in my eyes again. I quickly turned away, not wanting anyone to see my vulnerability. The kitchen was filled with the rich aroma of braised pork, but right now, that smell made me feel sick. Suddenly, I just wanted to run away from this home, away from my father's favoritism, away from this suffocating feeling. But I knew today was his birthday—I couldn't just walk out like that. I took a deep breath, wiped away my tears, and kept busy preparing the rest of the birthday banquet. Still, my heart had already grown cold halfway through.