I have always believed that love is never expressed in just one way. This is true on the scale of generations, and it is just as true for each individual person. The way someone loves will shape the one who receives that love. Its effects appear in everyday life, but they also sink much deeper, quietly shaping a person’s inner world for years, sometimes for a lifetime.
At the level of thought and character, a child’s first guides are always the parents. In childhood especially, their influence is immense. So when I think about love, I first think about the love I received from the older men in my family.
The love they gave me was traditional, stern, and deeply restrained. I grew up in a rural family in southern Henan, where old beliefs still held firm through my father’s generation and showed themselves plainly in the way they spoke and behaved. In all my memories, my grandfather and my father almost never smiled at me. They rarely talked with me at length either. Whenever they did speak to me, whether in private or in front of others, they wore serious expressions, and their eyes carried a pressure that could feel almost like a stare. With the fewest possible words, they would lay down the rules that were not to be broken. Sometimes all it took was a slight rise in tone for it to feel like a scolding.
In their hearts, the old hierarchy of father and son still had unquestioned authority. To them, a father disciplining his child was simply natural. If a child was not properly taught, that was the father’s failing. As for how that teaching should be done, they still trusted the old belief that strictness, even harshness, produced dutiful children. So in daily life, their way of speaking to the younger generation was severe almost by default. From childhood on, that style taught me to fear and respect them at the same time. Their authority was real, but it came at a cost: emotional distance.
And yet they did love me. In fact, the older I have grown and the more life I have seen, the more certain I have become of that. Their love was simply turned inward. It hid itself in the deepest layers of ordinary life. Luckily, I was sensitive enough to notice it. A watchful look, a brief question, a small gesture—through such things I could feel the true line of their emotions and recognize the affection they held for me.
Even so, there were many times when I felt resentment toward them. That was because theirs was not the form of love I longed for. I wanted to be taken outdoors to play freely. I wanted them to sit with me and really talk. I wanted us to laugh loudly together like friends. I wanted them to listen when I tried to speak from the heart. Whenever I saw in foreign films a father singing with his children, or calmly talking things through after learning what was troubling them, I felt a sincere kind of envy. That simple, warm, direct expression of feeling was the kind of love I dreamed of.
Fortunately, the influence of the older generation could only reach so far. One day I would become a father myself, and then I would have the right to choose my own way of loving. I thought about that countless times. If I had children one day, how would I show them my love? The answer was never completely clear, but one thing was certain: I would not trade closeness for authority the way my elders had.
Then my daughter, Yufei, was born, and nothing had ever made me happier. I told my wife more than once, "I may not become a great father, but I will absolutely be Yufei’s good friend." The word father carries duty and responsibility. The word friend suggests warmth, ease, and emotional closeness. Looking back, even that promise was shaped by the way I myself had been raised. Love travels a long road, and that sentence feels like a star I can follow.
As a father, I know I must bear responsibility in the years ahead, and that alone is no easy thing. But to be my daughter’s friend will require even more from me in some ways: heart-to-heart conversation, tenderness toward her feelings, and a patience that does not come naturally to a lazy and impatient person like me. Still, a promise has been made, and I should do all I can to keep it, because it is a promise made in love. I am not someone who gives his word lightly, yet for Yufei I am willing to accept this lifelong bond with all my heart.
I started a blog for her and registered a domain name in her name. I often used my camera to capture her most lovable moments. I even applied for a QQ number for her: 200912710, because Yufei was born at 10 in the morning on January 27, 2009. To me, it was the most meaningful QQ number I had ever seen.
I look forward to the day when Yufei grows up. Then I can take her traveling from place to place, and we can have the kind of open conversations I once wished for. We can talk about philosophy, literature, music, the future, ideals, and all the small things in ordinary life that move us. We can smile in each other’s arms, and we can see the tears in each other’s eyes. We can put on sneakers and jerseys and play a game of basketball together. We can go to a KTV and sing at the top of our lungs until we are laughing breathlessly. To me, that is what parent-child affection ought to feel like.
And if someday I am in a bad mood, or if I find myself craving too much of a father’s authority, I hope I can return to these thoughts and clear away the dust in my heart. I want to keep my feelings for my child in their original colors. I hope to stay beside Yufei in the double role of father and friend. That is how I have come to understand family love, and that is the form I want my love to take.