Little Meteor Chapter 38

Chapter 38 “Does it hurt?”

When Shen Mu returned home that evening, his mother had prepared a large table of dishes, as usual.

It was a common phenomenon in East Asian families: no matter how fiercely parents and children argued, they still had to come home for dinner. The deepest fissures seemed to be temporarily stitched up by those four words—coming home for dinner—suspending all sharp conflicts and collectively completing a superficial performance called “Harmony in the Family Brings Prosperity.”

His mother probably felt the dining atmosphere was too oppressive. She picked up a piece of spare rib for Shen Mu and asked, “Where is Xiao Jiang? Didn’t he come with you?”

Shen Mu replied, “He’s still at the hotel. Don’t worry about him.”

He had asked Jiang Chengxuan to come home with him, but Jiang Chengxuan said he had just visited that morning, and it wouldn’t be appropriate to return now. Besides, he figured, Your dad probably has things to say to you that outsiders shouldn’t hear. Talk to your dad properly, and call me if anything happens.

Shen Mu’s father ate dinner without saying a word. After the meal, he asked Shen Mu to follow him into the room.

Once inside, his father closed both the door and the window. Before his father could speak, Shen Mu immediately knelt down. He knelt sincerely, the sound of his knees hitting the floor sharp and clear: “Dad, I am truly sorry. If you haven’t calmed down, please hit me again.”

His father looked at him, his face expressionless: “Does hitting you help? If I hit you, will you stop having this problem?”

Their house was self-built, and the surrounding neighbors could hear every sound. People nearby were not discreet with their gossip. At that time, Xiao Hao hadn’t been sent to the Wellness and Rehabilitation Center yet, and he would shout and sing randomly at night. Neighbors even called the police, complaining that he was disturbing the peace. When the police arrived and saw Xiao Hao’s condition, they said nothing, but the neighbors who called the police would curse Xiao Hao every time they saw him.

His father’s voice was very low, and he didn’t explicitly say, “If I hit you, you won’t like men anymore.” This was not just out of fear of embarrassment, but also to protect Shen Mu’s self-respect.

Shen Mu had never been one to cry since childhood. Even when he was bullied the worst by other children, he never shed a tear. Now, his heart was aching terribly, but he still couldn’t cry.

He always felt guilty toward his parents. This guilt had tormented him since he was young. Although he often saw videos saying that whether your parents are doing well is not your responsibility, that their sacrifices were voluntary, and not to be morally blackmailed, those principles felt weightless and unconvincing whenever he saw his father using a five-year-old phone he couldn’t bear to replace, or his mother haggling over a few cents at the vegetable market.

He could never live according to his parents’ wishes, and he could never grow into the person they hoped he would be.

“No,” Shen Mu shook his head and smiled. “Even if you beat me to death, I can’t change this problem.”

Shen Mu’s father looked at his face. The swelling had gone down, but the handprint was still visible. He knew how hard he had slapped him. Slowly, he reached out and touched Shen Mu’s face: “Does it hurt?”

Shen Mu said, “No, it doesn’t hurt.”

“It seems I didn’t hit you hard enough,” Shen Mu’s father sighed. “Get up. Stop kneeling.”

Shen Mu stumbled slightly as he stood up. His father helped him sit down on the edge of the bed and scoffed softly: “Your legs are numb after kneeling for just this long. Why act tough?”

Shen Mu’s father began rubbing his knees, his voice very hoarse: “It must have been tiring, carrying our expectations, right? When you were little, your mother and I often told you, ‘You are our hope. You must strive, you must succeed, you must study hard and make something of yourself in the future.’ At the time, your mother and I didn’t think there was anything wrong with that. We always thought we had to put pressure on you so you could improve.”

“Looking back now, those words were indeed wrong. And your mother, she used to always talk about death. I did too; I even threatened to burn the house down.”

Shen Mu’s father choked up: “We couldn’t help it back then. Your brother was like that, and he tormented us for so long. Our minds were almost broken, so when we found a lifeline, we clung to it and dumped all the pressure onto you.”

Shen Mu hadn’t expected his father to bring this up voluntarily. He had always thought his parents would never realize their parenting methods were flawed, so there was no point in arguing with them—it would be meaningless. He opened his mouth, wanting to speak, but not a single word came out.

“Is that why,” Shen Mu’s father’s tone was filled with anguish, “you have to retaliate against us like this?”

Shen Mu wanted to laugh when he heard his father’s words, but at that moment, he only felt a stinging in his nasal cavity: “Dad, the word ‘retaliate’ is too heavy. You are my parents, and I am your son. No matter how much of an idiot I am, I know the kindness of birth and upbringing. All I think about is how to repay you, not how to retaliate. Although I have had many moments where I wanted to die, since I am still alive and well now, I will take responsibility for my own life. It’s not to defy anyone, and certainly not to retaliate against anyone.”

His father stopped moving when he heard this, frowning as he looked at him: “Why would you have moments where you wanted to die? Did we do something wrong to you?”

It was always like this. Shen Mu smiled bitterly inside. His parents were masters of retreating to advance. They seemed to be reflecting, but every question cleverly shifted the blame back to him. They proactively admitted fault, yet asked if he was retaliating. They cared about why he was suffering, yet countered with, “What did we ever do wrong to you?” This routine was too familiar, so familiar that it made his heart ache.

Shen Mu took a deep breath: “You didn’t do anything wrong to me. You provided me with food and clothing, supported my education, and did everything you could. I remember all of it.”

“Then why…”

“Because some things are more agonizing than hunger and cold,” Shen Mu interrupted him, his gaze falling on his father’s hands—calloused hands that had just been rubbing his knees. “I remember in the fourth grade, I scored second place, only one point behind first. You didn’t ask anything; you just threw the paper on the floor and said, ‘Why can others get first place, but you can’t?’ I thought then, maybe I will never be good enough.”

Shen Mu’s father’s lips moved, wanting to argue, but he swallowed his words.

“In middle school, a few classmates cornered me in an alley. They laughed at me for being the madman’s brother, saying I had the madman’s genes too. I fought them, my clothes were torn, and my face was bruised. When I got home, Mom cried while applying medicine, saying, ‘Can’t you just let us have some peace of mind? Your brother is already like this. If something happens to you too, how are we supposed to live?’ In that moment, I felt that my very existence was a mistake, a burden.”

“You placed all your hopes, along with the pain of disappointment in my brother, onto me. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t have my own preferences, I couldn’t fail, and I couldn’t show any weakness, because I was the only hope. I didn’t even dare to be happy, because my happiness felt like a betrayal of the suffering you were enduring. As for the moments I wanted to die, it wasn’t because I hated you. It was precisely because I wanted so badly to satisfy you, but realized I couldn’t, no matter what. That feeling of powerlessness, of being useless, was much harder to bear than being hit.”

Shen Mu’s father listened in silence. The hand resting on Shen Mu’s knee tightened, then slowly relaxed: “I am not a literary man, and I don’t understand everything you are saying, but one thing I do understand: has being our son made you so unhappy? Is that why you…”

He wanted to follow his old line of thinking, to define this as yet another form of resistance, but he ultimately didn’t say it. As Shen Mu was about to answer, he waved his hand to stop him. He didn’t want to hear the real answer. His voice was utterly exhausted: “Let’s stop talking for today. Get some rest early. We’ll talk tomorrow.”