Cen Xiang could never quite evaluate or define her parents. She felt they were both the most selfless and the most selfish parents in the world. Especially her father, who quietly followed her mother just one month after she passed away peacefully of old age.

After receiving the package her father had mailed, Cen Xiang rushed to their home, only to find him lying peacefully in bed, as if in sleep, eyes serenely closed, their long-faded wedding ring still on his ring finger.

He was dressed impeccably, his white hair meticulously combed, as if preparing for a date with his beloved.

In the time before, Cen Xiang had tried to stay by her father’s side as much as possible. She knew how deeply he loved her mother and feared he might not be able to cope.

But her father hadn’t shown extreme grief. He appeared neither sorrowful nor resentful, methodically handling all of her mother’s final arrangements.

Afterward, he often sat in front of their house, gazing into the distance at the sky, the woods, and the streams.

He would sit there all day, his gaze distant.

This was their retirement home. After her mother’s seventieth birthday, they both retired from work, leaving the urban bustle for a quiet two-story house in the suburbs. They renovated it to their taste and settled in for their golden years.

Standing beside the bed, Cen Xiang knew calling an ambulance would be futile. After a while, she began to cry.

The scene before her wasn’t unexpected, but it was heartbreaking nonetheless.

Before her mother passed, she had whispered four words to her: “Don’t stop him.”

Cen Xiang had asked, “Stop what?”

Her mother had just smiled without answering, shooing her away to speak with her father.

Now she understood.

Her father was going to follow her mother, to be with her again.

Both parents’ funerals were quiet, understated affairs.

Just like their wedding had been.

At Cen Xiang’s wedding, the venue had been filled with guests, decorated like a sea of flowers, with everyone toasting amid ocean breezes.

She had asked her mother if their wedding had been similar, but her mother had shaken her head, saying they had just gone on a trip.

But she hadn’t shared the details.

Cen Xiang stayed at the cemetery for half a day, watching the stonemason carefully engrave her father’s name. Her husband stayed with her throughout, worried she might break down.

Just over a month ago, her father had done the same thing, but he had squatted in front of the tombstone, refusing to stand above it.

There had been a space next to her mother’s name – he had deliberately left it for himself.

Cen Xiang had known this, but she hadn’t expected it to be filled so soon.

Her father, at eighty-two, had still acted like an impetuous youth when it came to her mother, eager and determined to keep his promise.

In life, her father had achieved remarkable academic success, nurturing countless students, and together with her mother, they had devoted most of their income to charitable causes.

Many colleagues, students, and beneficiaries contacted her, wanting to pay their respects, but Cen Xiang declined them all. This was her parents’ decision, and she had to honor it.

Only after the seventh day of her father’s passing did Cen Xiang dare to examine what he had left her. From the moment she received the package, she had sensed it contained his farewell.

His farewell to his daughter, to this world that no longer had her mother in it.

There was a handwritten letter from her father and a photo album. The letter was simple and understated, beginning with an apology to her before describing the stories behind each photograph in the album.

Cen Xiang finally learned the details of their wedding and finally understood the particulars of their love story.

They had rarely shared their romance with her, only saying that Dad had pursued Mom, that Mom had been Dad’s benefactor. Their love had seemed both inexplicable and inevitable as if destined.

In middle school, her teacher had assigned an essay topic: “What you consider the best love in the world.”

Many classmates wrote about their parents’ love for them, but Cen Xiang didn’t. She had written about the love between her parents. The essay was later posted on the classroom’s back wall as a model composition for its unique perspective and genuine emotion.

As she flipped through the album, tears streaming down her face, she thought that if she had known all this before, she could have written an even better essay.

But no matter how well written, it couldn’t surpass her father’s final letter.

No, “final letter” wasn’t the right description – it was more like a tender film, a beautiful poem.

She learned that her father had once been a poor student sponsored by her mother. That man who had stood tall like pine or bamboo, so distinguished in bearing, had once been frail and helpless, mired in hardship.

She learned their wedding had indeed been just the two of them, spending nearly two weeks on a small, sparsely populated island. The beach had been like golden carpet, the sea like sapphire. At night, they would kiss under the dense starry sky, embracing as they rolled in the waves, laughing and playing. Their self-taken photos were casual – they had brought their wedding dress and suit, making silly faces in the wind, free and carefree. Cen Xiang had never seen wedding photos so casual yet so wonderful.

She learned that her birth had been her mother’s idea. Her father had initially objected, worried about her mother’s health, but eventually agreed after careful discussion and the agreement that the child would take her mother’s surname.

Throughout the pregnancy, her mother hadn’t been comfortable – severe morning sickness in the early stages, then threatened premature labor later. While providing meticulous care, her father often secretly wiped away tears of regret, angry at himself for agreeing.

Fortunately, the delivery went smoothly, and as he watched her grow, her father gradually reconciled with himself and accepted her – their third family member.

She learned that the reason for her name, Cen Xiang, was because her romantic mother had early on chosen the name Li Xiang. But when circumstances changed and she took her mother’s surname, her mother had to be creative with her nickname, choosing the character “Li” that shared the same sound as her father’s name.

…

They had spent their entire lives thinking of each other, yet both believed they hadn’t done enough.

At the end of the letter, her father’s handwriting remained neat, but his tone became particularly light:

“Guess what your mom said to me before she left? She asked if I remembered our playful words from the year before we got married.

I said: How could I forget?

She pouted like a little girl: ‘I wanted to leave gracefully, but when I think about leaving you, about walking alone, about living by myself somewhere else for who knows how many years, I can’t bear it. So I’ll be selfish – I want you with me. Little boy, are you willing?’

How could I not be willing? How could I let her journey alone? How could it have been just playful words?

Even if she hadn’t said this, I would have chased after her like the wind, rushing to her side.

Lili, this was our promise, and I must keep it.

Your mom is still waiting for me, and I need to go back to being her little boy.

Forgive me for being equally selfish. Goodbye, my daughter. Mom and I will love you forever.”

His signature wasn’t “Father.”

It was “Li Wu.”

Himself.

How could there be such selfish parents?

Cen Xiang closed the album and folded the letter. She might never fully comprehend this in her lifetime, but she was certain that being their child, witnessing the world’s greatest love – even if only as an observer – was the greatest fortune of her life.