Chapter 4: The Weight of New Year’s Eve

Today was New Year’s Eve, a day I utterly despised. It was the Chinese New Year.

Upon returning home, my parents, as always, began to quarrel, with my mother unilaterally breaking down in tears.

She harbored grievances against my father on countless matters, a sentiment I, too, shared. Yet, I remained composed, while my mother was prone to fits of anger.

But let me first recount the recent events. I had returned home from work for a two-week holiday.

Because of the New Year, these two weeks had become an absolute hell.

There was no warm, cozy bed as I had imagined, no freedom to rest, no laughter, and no internet to offer an escape.

My old home was frigid, and at night, heavy clothes were piled onto the icy quilt. Crawling beneath them, I felt a suffocating lack of air.

I dared not show even a hint of discontent.

After all, a sensible child would never add extra burdens to their mother.

I had to be sensible.

Life between the 25th and 26th had been relatively ideal.

Although the quality of the holiday remained poor—forced to rise at eight or nine for breakfast, unable to freely stay up late, and the slight turn in bed at night allowing cold air to seep through the quilt’s opening, causing discomfort—these were minor issues.

At least, the arguments between my parents remained within a tolerable range.

Then came the 27th, when unexpected guests arrived, forcing my mother to hastily prepare lunch.

She was too reasonable, too polite.

So polite, in fact, that for the sake of a little face and etiquette, she would readily exhaust herself, over and over again.

I had always felt for my mother.

Therefore, I detested all guests. However, I couldn’t reveal such feelings, lest I appear insensible.

All I could do was stay by my mother’s side, enduring the toil, the preparations, and the silent suffering.

I bore the brunt of my mother’s emotional outbursts directed at my father. Any issue, no matter how trivial, became a pretext for her to vent.

I hated listening to it. I would smile as I listened, smile as I agreed, and smile as I tried to mediate.

The strained relationship between my parents, or rather, their mutual lack of understanding, ensured these emotional outpourings never ceased.

I had tried to ease things, tried countless times. I had begun when I was still in junior high, at just thirteen years old.

But it was no use; the quarrels continued as before, and the emotions only intensified. I detested my own helplessness.

‘It must be my fault,’ I thought. ‘I need to mend their relationship; I must have that ability.’

I kept trying. And I have continued to try, even now. I am twenty-one.

I am a senior, nearing graduation, and my internship is already underway. I have gained financial independence, having stopped taking living expenses from home since the end of my junior year.

I was so glad. ‘I’ve reduced the burden on my family; I’m quite amazing, aren’t I?’ I thought.

Then my mother began to blame herself, repeatedly telling me how useless her parents were. It seemed I had rejoiced too soon.

I hated that.

This year’s New Year celebration, as always, erupted in arguments. My mother vented her frustrations at my father over various trivial matters.

My father, unrepentant, returned home to his usual idle ways, showing no change in his habit of ignoring household affairs.

I hated that.

I still smiled, attempting to ease the oppressive atmosphere in front of them. I was twenty-one; I was an adult, financially independent. I could take care of the family.

I had even transferred two thousand yuan to my mother. Surely, now, I could succeed?

I dreamt. But on New Year’s Eve, that night, my dream shattered, scattering across the ground, just like the fragments of porcelain bowls by the dim well.

****

On the 27th, an elderly villager passed away. The funeral procession was scheduled for New Year’s Eve.

It seemed we were distantly related. Both my parents needed to go and help.

My mother said, “We must go to help, so that the elders of our family are looked after as they depart.”

I understood. And I felt a flicker of joy.

When other major events took precedence, the arguments between my parents would at least subside. Yet, it seemed I had rejoiced too soon again.

On the evening of the 28th, a day that should have been filled with a happy family reunion dinner, the family of the deceased invited us to eat at their house.

My father went. My mother also prepared to go, but halfway there, she realized Auntie, who was supposed to go with her, hadn’t gone. So, she returned, deciding to cook herself.

She took the cold dishes from the morning—four or five of them—and added a new meatball soup. While she was cooking, my grandparents came up.

They had come to prepare for worshipping the Bodhisattva, burning paper, and setting off firecrackers. They hadn’t gone to the funeral house for dinner either.

It seemed only my father had gone. I felt a surge of unease.

When dinner began, I ate heartily, until my mother started complaining to my grandparents about my father’s irresponsibility, unleashing another torrent of emotions.

As if sensing the future, she suddenly declared that if my father went out to play cards that night, she would stab him with a knife. If she couldn’t have peace, no one would.

I hated that. The food before me suddenly became bland and tasteless.

Annoyed, I buried my head, stirring the food in my bowl with my chopsticks, though it appeared as if I were diligently eating.

I hated that. The feeling of revulsion reached its peak at that moment. I tried to suppress it.

My heart pounded, rising to my throat. I suddenly began to recount some amusing anecdotes and troubles from my work.

Very carefully, I led into what I truly wanted to say: “Venting emotions only creates problems; only calm and peaceful communication can solve them.”

My mother understood. Yet, she simply said my father would never change.

I replied, “If you hold that thought, you’ll never solve the problem.” My mother said nothing, merely silently began to clear her dishes.

A heaviness settled in my heart. I hated that. A sudden fear gripped me.

‘My father shouldn’t go out to play cards tonight, should he?’ I wondered. Before dinner, I had secretly called him, specifically telling him not to drink there and to come home quickly after eating.

I thought everything would be fine. I thought… ‘It turns out I’m always the clown.’

My father returned a little late. When he came back, my mother was washing dishes by the well.

The child from the village elder’s house, who played well with my younger brother, often came to find him. He arrived then, too.

He suddenly shouted loudly, “Your dad is playing cards at my house!”

My mind buzzed, and my face flushed hot. I didn’t know what I was thinking then. I just kept smiling, saying, “No, no, my dad is home. He just got back.”

The annoying child continued to chatter loudly, “I saw him! Your dad is playing cards at my house!”

Just then, my father emerged from the restroom. The atmosphere grew tense. I hesitated for a moment, then asked him, “Are you going to play cards later?”

My grandparents also looked at him. My father remained noncommittal. My grandmother anxiously tugged at him, whispering, “Don’t go, don’t go. Stay home and play a round of ‘Fight the Landlord’ with us.”

My father was unwilling. I took a deep breath. ‘I hate this, I hate this so much.’

“You said before that you wouldn’t go out to play cards again.” My father grinned shamelessly, “I was just about to go, so I came back to ask your mother for permission.”

My grandmother grew even more flustered, whispering, “Don’t ask, don’t ask…” I stood motionless, unwilling to move.

My father went to the kitchen by the well. He said something. I didn’t know what he said. I only knew my mother remained silent.

My father returned to the living room as if nothing had happened. I mechanically turned my head to stare at him, pleading, “Don’t go, please don’t go.”

My father remained noncommittal. My heart pounded rapidly, and my face felt scorching hot. In my numbness, my mother’s voice, choked with suppressed emotion, erupted from the well.

Accompanying it was the metallic clatter of pots and pans. My suspended heart finally died. I rushed to my mother’s side.

My mother sat by the dim, damp, and cold well, panting heavily, her whimpers punctuated by bursts of raw emotion. I reached out and took her by the armpits, trying to pull her up.

‘She can’t sit here; it’s too cold.’ But I couldn’t lift her. I hated that.

My younger brother also came over. Still in elementary school, he looked bewildered and wronged, his voice tearful as he sensibly brought tissues, repeatedly telling Mom not to cry, Mom not to cry.

My mother’s crying did not stop. She picked up a porcelain bowl nearby and smashed it to the ground. One after another, white fragments scattered everywhere.

The cracking sounds echoed five or six times, or perhaps seven or eight; I hadn’t paid attention. At last, it stopped.

I felt like an emotionless robot, holding my mother. I had to mediate. I had to ease the tension. I had to.

I needed to try again. My empty head, like an observer, or a will from a third world, controlled my body as cold words escaped my lips: “Mom, I understand how you feel. When I’m stressed at work, I also want to smash things.

I even walked alone through the streets of Wuhan for several hours, aimlessly and confused. So, I understand. Let’s go back to the room, okay?”

My mother cried, pouring out her exhaustion, her helplessness, her grievances. I echoed her sentiments, saying, “I know, I know. If you still feel upset, you can smash a few more bowls. It’s fine; I’ll just buy new ones tomorrow.”

My mother remained unmoved. My father came over, intending to say he would wash the dishes and let my mother go back to her room to rest.

My mother suddenly roared, telling him to get lost, saying she didn’t want to see him. ‘So annoying… so annoying… so annoying…’

My phone, clutched in my hand, quickly pressed the power button. The light flickered slowly.

My mother said she was so tired, so pained, that she worried about everything in the house. The thought of the rest of her life being like this left her feeling utterly suffocated.

‘In that case, perhaps it would be better to just divorce.’ This thought suddenly surfaced in my mind, growing more intense. My chaotic brain nearly spoke it aloud.

In a third-person perspective, reason regained control. I regarded the situation dispassionately, analyzing the idea. With only my father earning money, if they divorced, my mother would still struggle, perhaps even more so.

Moreover, everything would fall apart; everything would become bleak and broken. I realized this belatedly, suppressing the thought. I hated that.

How awful, how pathetic. Despite everything, I hadn’t shed a single tear, apart from a slight panic. It felt like a play, and I was merely an audience member.

I took a deep breath. Suddenly, I felt wronged. Why, every single New Year holiday, did things have to turn out like this?

Why did they have to quarrel? Why, after working hard during my senior year, juggling studies and worrying about my livelihood, did I still have to concern myself with these things?

Why was I born into this family? ‘Such thoughts are wrong,’ I promptly told myself deep down. ‘This is my destiny; I cannot choose. I can only become a pillar, shoulder the responsibility.’

But why must I endure all of this? Enough. I stopped my thoughts and halted the tears welling in my eyes. Enough.

My eyes felt sore, and my nose seemed blocked. I looked up, but a single tear still escaped uncontrollably, which I quickly wiped away.

I lost all emotion again, still feeling sad, but beyond that, only one thought remained in my heart: ‘I want to escape, I want to escape, I want to escape, I want to escape, I want to escape, I want to escape, I want to escape, I want to escape, I want to escape, I want to escape, I want to escape, I want to escape, I want to escape, I want to escape, I want to escape, I want to escape, I want to escape, I want to escape, I want to escape, I want to escape, I want to escape, I want to escape, I want to escape, I want to escape, I want to escape, I want to escape, I want to escape, I want to escape…’

But I couldn’t escape. ‘What if I just died? Would that be better?’ I suddenly asked myself. I didn’t know, but my parents would probably be very sad, and if they cried, it would be pitiful.

I answered myself. I breathed deeply. My chest felt so tight, as if I were suffocating. I suddenly felt a strong urge to vent my own emotions.

And so, at this moment, 21:25 on the sorrowful, quiet New Year’s Eve of 2024, I wrote these words. To record my damned, cold, emotionless heart.

I want to confide. I want to vent. And the only ones who can accept these wretched thoughts of mine are these words, and you, before the screen.

I apologize for letting you see this on what should be a harmonious and joyous night. If I have dampened your spirits, I am truly sorry.

As I wrote, my mother had already gone to bed, though she didn’t seem to be asleep. I sat in the cold living room, tapping on my phone screen. My father ate a bucket of instant noodles nearby, then smoked one cigarette after another.

Messages occasionally popped up in the WeChat group, seemingly discussing the Spring Festival Gala, accompanied by emojis. I couldn’t see the specific content, nor did I have the desire to click on them.

I just felt incredibly distant from it all. My hands were almost frozen. This record ends here. Thank you, you who are before the screen. I wish you a Happy New Year.