Chapter 4

After quite a while, Mr. Lewis was helped to his feet and sat down on a stool. His face was still very pale, but he could speak now.

He looked at Ben, then at me, and sighed.

His voice was weak, but very clear. “Ben, your dad has been running this porridge stand for twenty-three years. When you were three, your mom left. Your dad raised you alone, had to farm the land and take care of you, and this stand nearly couldn’t keep going. But that year on May Day, a long-haul trucker drank a bowl of hot water at your dad’s stand and, after finishing the instant noodles, insisted on kneeling to your dad. He said he had been driving from Arizona to Ohio and hadn’t had a single sip of hot water for three days. It was your dad’s bowl of water that saved his life.”

Mr. Lewis coughed twice and kept going. “After hearing that, your dad kept the porridge stand going. Twenty-three years, every May Day, rain or shine. He said he didn’t have much ability in this life, and this was the little thing he could do to help people. If he could keep doing it, he would.”

The stand was dead silent.

Ben stood at the entrance to the tent, sunlight falling on him and stretching his shadow very long.

His uniform was crisp, his shoes shone brightly, and the badge on his chest reflected the sun.

He just stood there, not moving at all.

After who knows how long, he raised his head and looked at me.

“Dad, I…”

He couldn’t finish.

Because the sound of a truck came from far away.

I didn’t look at him.

I crouched down and picked up the scattered pairs of chopsticks on the ground, wiping them off with a rag.

I said, “Ben, the day you got into the tax bureau, I was so happy I couldn’t sleep all night. I thought my son had made something of himself, that he was handling something as important as taxes, and that he’d definitely be able to do some real things for the people in the future. I never thought the first real thing you’d do was smash your old man’s rice bowl.”

Ben lowered his head and said nothing.

I stood up, tucked the chopsticks into my apron pocket, and said, “You can only choose one between being warmhearted and being a government worker. You chose your position, and I don’t blame you. But you need to remember this: the reason you can stand here as an official today isn’t because you’re so capable. It’s because this broken porridge stand, with its bowl of porridge and packets of instant noodles, carried you all the way through school. You don’t have to acknowledge the stand, but you do have to acknowledge the truth.”

I don’t know who in the crowd started crying.

Ben stood there too, his eyes red, but in the end he still didn’t say a word.

The iron pot and the stove were loaded onto the truck and taken away.

I had only taken a dozen steps when a voice came from behind me.

“Dad.”

I didn’t turn around.

Not because I didn’t want to, but because I couldn’t.

I was afraid that if I turned around, my tears would fall.

Ben shouted again, “Dad.”

This time his voice was louder. “Dad, I really had no choice. Don’t blame me.”

I didn’t dare stop walking. The wind blew past, and my heart went cold too.