Those Rough, Calloused Hands

Xiao Yu always felt that his father didn't love him. His impression of his father was someone who left early and returned late, always carrying an indelible smell of paint, and so taciturn that he barely spoke three sentences a day. One winter night in his final year of high school, Xiao Yu was crying alone in the living room after failing a mock exam. The front door quietly opened, and his father returned home from work, bringing the cold night air with him. Seeing his son's tear-streaked face, his father stood frozen, his mouth opening and closing, but in the end, he said nothing. He simply turned and walked into the kitchen. After a while, his father came out with a steaming bowl of poached egg noodles and gently placed it in front of Xiao Yu. "You need to eat to have strength." That was the only thing his father said that night. Xiao Yu took the bowl but accidentally touched his father's hand. In that instant, he froze. It was a hand covered in cracks and thick calluses, even with dried paint still clinging to it. Years of gripping brushes and carrying heavy loads had even deformed his father's fingers, which trembled slightly in the cold wind. Looking at those scarred hands that had supported their family, Xiao Yu's tears welled up again. He finally understood. His father's love was never in his words, but in the daily hard labor, in the bowl of hot noodles late at night. The noodles that night were especially warm.