Chapter 764: My Father

My Father

My Father

My father, Mr. Sun Jianhua, passed away due to illness on June 25, 2025, at the age of 57.

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I'm sorry to post such a standalone chapter.

On the day my father died, I did not take leave; I finished updating Chapter Two on the plane.

At that time, I did not fall into endless grief or weep bitterly, as characters in novels often do upon hearing such news.

I simply packed my bags with unusual calmness, had a brief conversation with my mother, and bought the earliest available flight ticket.

The nearest flight had only one business class seat left.

3,400 yuan.

This was likely the most expensive travel expense of my life.

Yet at the time, it also felt like the cheapest.

So cheap that I didn't hesitate at all—I paid with the fastest speed I'd ever used.

Thanks to today's advanced transportation network, I learned of my father's death just before four in the afternoon.

By six o'clock, I was already seated on the plane; by eight at night, I landed; by half past nine, I was back at my grandfather's house.

Earlier this year, on January 19, also around three or four in the afternoon, I received a WeChat message from my mother informing me that my grandfather had passed away.

Now, the same familiar scene rushed at me again, suffocating.

And only half a year had passed between the two events.

My grandfather's house was on the first floor, facing a three-way intersection, with a curtain that could be pulled open.

At the entrance, several blue canopies had already been set up.

When I stepped out of the taxi, my relatives stared at me in silence, greeting my entry into the house with their eyes.

I was in a state of neither sorrow nor joy, as if my thoughts had been frozen.

The moment I walked into the room, my father lay quietly on the bed, just as my grandfather had six months earlier.

I had never before thought my father and grandfather looked alike.

Now, I felt dazed, as if they had never looked so similar.

My mother wept softly beside me; when she saw me, she took my hand and asked me to call out to Father twice.

I opened my mouth, but no sound came out.

I simply stared quietly at the man before me.

Standing beside the bed, I felt lost, not knowing where else I could stand.

Then.

My father's body was placed into a specialized refrigeration unit and positioned in the living room.

I sat beside my mother, gazing through the transparent top of the unit at my father's face inside.

Outside, relatives were offering incense.

Several aunts, uncles, and their spouses had been tirelessly managing every detail of the proceedings.

As the son, I merely followed the rituals mechanically—whatever they said, I did.

On the 26th, I spent the entire day busy, but during brief gaps in the morning and afternoon, I sat beside my father and wrote the two chapters for that day.

With a pre-prepared outline and chapter plan, my mind operated like a machine, maintaining steady output.

I should have taken leave.

But sometimes I truly had nothing else to do, so I filled myself with writing.

When I was in my second year of university, during the summer break, I told my parents I wanted to take a year off to write a novel.

At first, they strongly opposed it, but eventually they generously agreed and supported my choice.

Later, when I achieved success, my father took pride in it.

He believed his decision to support his son was correct, that he had not buried my talent—compared to other parents, he was a model of an excellent father.

He must have thought this with such pride at the time.

He even enthusiastically posted on his Moments, promoting my novel.

As if he wanted the whole world to know how outstanding a child he had raised.

And now.

The man who always liked to post his son's novels on Moments.

The man who loved to ask his son which female lead he'd choose as a wife.

The man who secretly slipped into my full-subscription group, thinking I hadn't noticed.

He lies inside.

His son sits outside, writing a novel, as if his soul stands beside me watching me write.

Unfortunately.

He can no longer post on Moments.

Perhaps I should keep his WeChat account; when I release a new book, I'll post a Moments update on his behalf.

As if he were still supporting me from above.

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In the evening.

The body needed to be placed in the coffin.

My father's body was placed into the coffin, covered layer upon layer with blankets.

Beside me were the muffled sobs of my mother and aunts, while I stared blankly, emotionally numb.

It wasn't until the man in charge, just as they were about to seal the coffin, spoke a single sentence.

"Take one last look—once the lid is closed, you won't see him again."

He said the coffin lid would shake three times, then it would be sealed.

In that instant, my body and emotions seemed to finally break through a long-blocked barrier—a strange current surged up my spine.

Tears instantly flooded my eyes.

My father's final expression vanished in my blurred vision.

Three shakes and you seal it—couldn't you shake a little slower?

I hadn't even had time to wipe my tears; I hadn't clearly seen his face before the coffin was shut.

That night I didn't write a single word—only posted a pre-written chapter saying I'd take the next day off.

Because I had to take my father to the crematorium.

I thought: after sending my father off in the daytime, I'd surely have time to update at night.

So I only requested half a day off.

I'm used to burying bad news inside myself, unwilling to tell outsiders—it would feel like begging for sympathy.

When Grandpa passed away earlier this year, I did the same; it wasn't until over two months later that I briefly mentioned it in a single chapter.

This time, I should've done the same.

I planned to wait until this novel was finished, then just mention it in passing.

There was no need to lay it all out so extensively.

But when I woke at dawn, I changed my mind.

When my father was being cremated, my mother and aunts wept bitterly beside him.

I didn't cry.

Only when I woke at dawn did I look at my father's fully charged phone, open it, and scroll through his WeChat.

—Hangzhou High-End Matchmaking Group 1

—"If You Are the One" Premium Matchmaking Group

—Jiangsu-Zhejiang-Shanghai Family Matchmaking Group

—Hangzhou Linping, Yuhang In-Person Meeting Matchmaking Group

—"A Lifetime With You" Premium Matchmaking Group

—Zhejiang Senior Single Public Matchmaking Group

A long string of matchmaking groups—dozens in total, big and small.

It made my eyes spin.

I couldn't help laughing.

Laughing until I trembled.

Laughing until tears slipped down unbidden.

He'd joined so many matchmaking groups.

Yet he never once pressured me to get married.

My father's intense, restrained love became tangible in this moment.

After his death, I cried for the first time—truly, fully.

I collapsed onto the bed, originally planning to get up and write after sleeping, but now I had no will to do so.

Finally, I got up, sat before my computer, and felt I should record this.

I thought of the people coming and going at the funeral home—every day, countless people die worldwide, and my father was just one among the nameless.

Fortunately, I'm a novelist.

Fortunately, I still have a little influence.

At this moment, I suddenly didn't want to hide or stay quiet.

I wanted my father to leave behind even a trace in this world.

Even if it was only this one article.

In fact.

Ever since I wrote "My Girlfriend Is an UP主," the male leads in my novels have always had both parents alive; their father and mother figures were largely drawn from my own father and mother.

Chen Jianhua from "My Girlfriend Is an UP主," Jiang Zhenguó from "Sister, Stop It!," Xu Jiān from "Rebirth: Ten Years Back," Ài Zhōngguó from "Why Date When You've Got a Cat?," and Li Guohóng in this book.

Every father figure I've written is a concrete manifestation of some trait or aspect of my father.

Perhaps this is another way he exists in this world.

Even though he's gone, he lives on in the novels I write.

This brings me a small measure of comfort.

So for the coming period, my goal is to finish this book well.

Li Guohóng's state in this novel is precisely the daily life I've always wished for my father.

No work, doing what he loves, strolling around every day, going fishing with friends.

In the past, he always cared more about whether his son was doing well, while he himself remained frugal, refusing to spend on himself, with little to no leisure activities.

I told him to spend more on himself, not to always think of leaving me something—life is about enjoying yourself most of all.

But for him, perhaps my happiness was his happiness.

Now I can no longer do anything for him.

At least, let the character he projects onto in my novel live a happy, beautiful life.

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