To them, my decades of back-breaking labor meant nothing compared to the scraps they could beg from my son.
My identity as a father was a stain on his résumé. A sanitation worker was a convenient lie to cover the ugly truth of his origin.
I lay in that guesthouse for two days.
Catatonic.
The hope in my heart sizzled out like charcoal thrown into snow. Only a thin wisp of smoke remained.
But I wasn't ready to accept it. Not yet.
If I went back now, in disgrace, how could I face his mother in the afterlife? I told myself my son was just confused. Cornered by the situation. A momentary lapse.
A father shouldn't hold a grudge against his child.
*Does he think I embarrass him? Fine.*
*Then I won't be his father.*
I thought about his massive office building. They needed security, didn't they?
I was old, but I was sturdy. I could guard a door.
I didn't want his money. Just a meal and a place to stand.
I just wanted… to see him. To know he was safe.
The thought took root like weeds after rain.
I gathered my shattered dignity, put on my best tunic suit—the Zhongshan style I'd saved for special occasions—and walked back to the imposing glass tower.