A Father’s Plans and a New Acquaintance

Upon returning home, as I slipped off my shoes, I noticed a pair of heavily creased leather shoes by the entrance. My heart sank with a familiar certainty. I tossed my schoolbag onto the sofa, intending to reheat the lunch leftovers, only to find the rice cooker held but a single serving, barely enough for myself.

I rapped on the door of the room in the main hall, receiving only a deep, muffled groan in response. I chose to interpret it as an invitation to enter.

Inside the room, my father lay deeply asleep, completely enshrouded by his blanket. The blackout curtains in our home were already superb, and with the sun having long since dipped below the horizon, the entire room was plunged into an oppressive darkness. My father’s breathing was exceptionally heavy, his muffled snores reverberating through the entire space.

“Are you eating, Dad?” I asked, remaining at the doorway without stepping inside, merely speaking at a moderate volume to see if he would stir.

As my voice carried across the room, the figure on the bed began to stir. My father’s robust body emerged from beneath the blanket. He propped himself up, sitting on the bed, then picked up the phone from his nightstand to check the time.

“Why are you back so late?” my father asked.

“Club activities.”

“Ah~” He remembered. My homeroom teacher must frequently update my parents on my situation, so he should have been aware of my club activities. He rose from the bed, his eyes not fully open, yet I could discern a dense network of bloodshot veins within them, clearly indicating he was still groggy. Despite this, he picked up the clothes from the floor and put them on. This struck me as odd, as he usually couldn’t be bothered to wear clothes at home, no matter what he was doing.

“You go change your clothes too; we’re eating out tonight,” Father said.

I was currently in my school uniform, and I couldn’t quite grasp why changing clothes was necessary just to eat out. However, my parents often did this, especially my mother, who always dressed up whenever we went out. I didn’t share this habit, never changing clothes specifically for an occasion, yet I still had to comply with their requests.

Opening my wardrobe, I found only black short-sleeved shirts and black long-sleeved shirts. As for trousers, there were only black shorts and black long pants. While there were minor differences in patterns and materials, I paid them no mind. My parents, of course, frequently bought me clothes, but I consistently gravitated towards black or white garments. Over time, they simply stopped buying me colored clothes.

After changing, I settled into my father’s car. He always drove with one hand on the steering wheel and the other occupied with his phone, only feigning proper attention when passing under surveillance cameras. We drove all the way to the pedestrian street in the city center, eventually entering a restaurant boasting a delightful ambiance.

Given it was a weekday, the restaurant was largely empty, meaning our food would surely arrive quickly. After my father scanned the QR code and placed our order, we entered the inevitable waiting phase. Whenever this happened, he would invariably try to make conversation with me, a ritual that always proved quite grueling.

“How have things been at school recently?”

Father leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, his tone nonchalant. Perhaps he genuinely didn’t care much, or perhaps he deliberately tried to make the conversation seem natural.

Ordinarily, at this point, I would have replied, ‘The usual.’ But things were different now. After experiencing several peculiar coincidences in just a few short days, the answer I could give had undergone a subtle shift.

“I’ve made friends,” I told my father.

He seemed to have prepared himself mentally, having decided what expression to wear and what to say in such a situation. Yet, his unusually prolonged silence betrayed him. I knew he was surprised; even as he maintained his usual expression, years of living together allowed me to discern his true reaction.

“Is that so? You should get along well with your friends,” he said, then added, “Boys or girls?”

“Both.”

Father took a breath, and after a subtly awkward silence, he picked up the menu beside him and started flipping through it. “What do you want to drink?”

“Anything is fine.”

My father was by no means a man of few words. On the contrary, he was remarkably talkative and humorous. At drinking gatherings, he would take charge of livening the atmosphere and introducing topics, and when drunk, he would utter grand boasts, speaking of his not-so-great ambitions, often leaving those around him in stitches. Yes, my father was an excellent conversationalist, capable of chatting with people for an entire evening at the dinner table, discussing social issues, life philosophies, national politics… Yet, when he spoke with me, he was remarkably taciturn. Was it just us, or were all fathers and sons like this?

The waiter brought our drinks: a large bottle of plum juice. My mother had once remarked that plum juice stimulated the appetite, and ever since, it had become our default drink when eating out. Father poured himself a glass, then handed me the bottle, and I poured one for myself as well.

“What about your part-time job?”

“I only went for two days last weekend,” I replied. “Earned 200.”

“That’s a bit meager.”

It was an hourly job, after all; something was better than nothing. Though, truthfully, I wasn’t sure what other jobs paid better anyway.

“What are you going to do with the money you earned? Buy games?” He didn’t ask with a fatherly air of authority, but in a lighter, more characteristic tone.

“Yeah, the Capcom Resident Evil 9.”

“Really? I thought you’d be playing Street Fighter 7.”

My father was an avid fan of fighting games. Besides mainstream titles like King of Fighters and Street Fighter, he also dabbled in Guilty Gear, Tekken, and Nintendo’s Super Smash Bros. However, he still preferred Capcom’s fighting games, claiming it was nostalgia from his arcade days as a child—a realm I didn’t quite understand. When he played Street Fighter at home, he would invariably curse and grumble, muttering things like, ‘Damn Capcom, when are they going to release a new Darkstalkers?’ I never quite grasped it.

Games were the only common ground between my father and me. During my childhood, when I was most passionate about gaming, my relationship with my father was at its closest. We had endless topics to discuss almost every day. Why had those times vanished, never to return? Why did playing games no longer bring the same joy as before?

“Son, I want to discuss something with you,” he said. “I’m planning to get a new car, and I want to register it under your name.”

“Why?”

“What do you mean, ‘why’?” My father frowned. “Everything I own will eventually be yours. Registering the car under your name means you can drive it directly after you graduate and get your license. This way, you won’t have the pressure of buying a car later. Just lend it to me when your old man needs it.”

But why? I naturally knew the price of a car, and I also knew our family’s annual income. The car my father currently drove had cost him half a lifetime’s wages. And now he was talking about buying a car for me. Why? Why would one person go to such lengths for another, simply because he was my father and I was his child?

“It’ll be another two years before you can drive. Considering our family’s savings, and selling my current car then, it would be enough to accumulate a substantial sum. Moreover, loans are convenient nowadays, enough to buy you a good car.”

A jumble of emotions churned within me. I didn’t know how to react. Should I be happy? Should I be overjoyed? Or should I feel moved, pained, and pathetic? I wanted to say something…

“A car is a great thing, especially a good one. You’ll have face in front of your friends, and it’s cool to drive around for fun. Having a car also gives you more assurance when looking for a girlfriend or getting married. And a good car won’t be easily phased out; you can even pass it down to your kids someday.”

My father was a very worldly man, unlike my mother, he hadn’t received a good education. But watching him, he grew increasingly excited, secretly delighted as he imagined me driving the car. In that moment, both accepting and refusing brought me agony.

“What if I don’t get married?” I mused about my future. “I don’t think any girl would like someone like me.”

“Who can predict the future? You’ve made friends now, haven’t you?” He drank the plum juice as if it were alcohol, downing it in one go. “And even if you don’t get married or have children, having a car will make life a bit more convenient no matter what. When you’re old and can’t live alone, you can even sell the car and hire a nanny or something. In short, you won’t lose out.”

My final attempt failed; Father seemed to have made up his mind. Afterward, the dishes arrived one after another, and we spoke little. I didn’t feel comfortable during that meal. Thankfully, while I could infer my father’s thoughts and feelings by observing his expressions, he couldn’t do the same for me. He must have assumed I was delighted about getting a car.

Why was it that, despite living so closely, the distance between our hearts felt so vast?

****

Halfway through the meal, I excused myself to take a stroll outside, citing digestion. I didn’t wander far, staying near the restaurant. Both my father and I had hearty appetites, but we always ate slowly when dining out. Outside, the sun had completely vanished, and the city’s artificial glow illuminated the vibrant streets. I gazed at the display window of a shop on my right, my blurry reflection superimposed on the glass.

I didn’t resemble my father; he always said I only inherited his height, and my looks favored my mother. Yet, my mother in my memories always had a fierce expression. Did I possess such a face too? Staring at my reflection, the more I pondered, the less certain I became of who I truly was. My mood grew somewhat somber. From my perspective, my current state was merely self-inflicted worry; some things were better accepted plainly, as they weren’t mine to fret over.

But I also knew I couldn’t continue like this.

Compared to my own happiness, the happiness of others was equally important. My parents constantly thought about how to make me happy, so what about me? How could I make them happy? Doubt and confusion took root in my heart, like numerous figures swirling within the fog of life, making me even more at a loss.

“Um… are you here to buy clothes?”

My attention was drawn back by a sweet, clear voice. I realized I must have been standing there too long, surely leading the shop assistant to misunderstand.

I was about to turn and apologize when I saw a girl in peculiar attire standing before me. Her hair was grayish-white, and she wore a black strapless dress adorned with a fake collar and a small shrug, both elaborately trimmed with ruffles and lace. Her headband was also ruffled, and her face featured dark purple eyeshadow and lip gloss.

I seemed to recall this style; it was called Gothic Lolita, I believed.

“I’m sorry, am I blocking the way?” I decided to apologize first; that approach usually worked in any situation.

“Ah, no, not at all,” the girl seemed a bit shy, her words not flowing smoothly. “I was just wondering… are you also interested in this kind of clothing?”

It was only then that I noticed the plastic mannequin on the display next to me was wearing the same type of outfit as the girl. It seemed she had mistaken me for someone with a similar interest.

“No, I was just looking,” I explained simply. “Besides, I’m a guy; I couldn’t wear something like this, could I?”

“Ah, you’re right,” she covered her mouth with a finger. “I-I’m sorry, that was silly of me. Please pretend I didn’t say that.”

Her gesture allowed me to see her nails, adorned with various decals: skulls, bats, black roses… Was it called nail art?

I didn’t delve too deeply; it was getting late. I needed to go back, finish dinner with my father, and then do my homework.

“Um! Even if it’s not quite right for a guy to wear, you could buy it as a gift for your girlfriend!” The girl seemed to be recommending it to me.

‘I don’t have a girlfriend.’ I didn’t need to say it; she didn’t wait for me to.

“Even if you don’t have a girlfriend, it’s perfect for a female friend. This style is very popular now~”

Normally, I wouldn’t be swayed by her sales pitch, as I had no need for such items. But now she had given me an idea. Coincidentally, I had someone to give it to.

“Then… could you recommend something for me? Something suitable for a taller girl?”