When my older sister was born, she had a condition called neonatal jaundice. She came out with a yellow colour on her skin and in her eyes, and the doctors said that she needed sunlight. So, my father held her up, a baby just the size of his forearm, to the sun everyday. He would hold her until his arms went numb, in simple hopes of her getting better. 

My father is a man of incredible resilience, determination, and intelligence. He came from nothing. He grew up as a farmer in the suburbs of Xiamen, going to the worst high school in his town and graduating top of his class. When he filled our dinner table with the savoury aroma of countless traditional dishes: huǒguō, běijīng kǎoyā, and chǎofàn, he never let us forget that he and his three older brothers nearly starved for months at a time, surviving off of plain rice and maybe beans––if they were lucky. Even with his ridiculous guilt tripping, he never spared any expense if it meant it would go towards our happiness. He would tug on our ears and kiss our cheeks as we danced barefoot in the kitchen and tell us, 

“Bǎobèi, I will always invest in you.” 

For years of my childhood, my father was thirteen hours away in Beijing, while we, my mom, sister, and I, resided in the cushy suburbs of Toronto. I remember vividly Wechatting him off of my mom’s newly purchased Iphone 5, while he showed us his penthouse view from the center of the city. I knew he loved us more than anything in the world. Even when he got busy, he would always find the time to see our faces over video chat, and promised that he would come home soon. He never missed a birthday or a Christmas, but it felt like he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders as he flew home, shifting the tectonic plates our house stood on every time he walked through those doors. I never knew if it was the stress of his work, or the shock of suddenly having his children in front of him, but with him home, there was rarely a day of peace. 

The problem was my older sister, my jie jie, who inherited more than just my father’s eyes and square jaw. She assumed his stubborn nature, his resistance to any opinion other than his own, and his determination to win every argument. My sister was my hero. In many ways, she still is. She taught me every feminist ideology that she read, rambled endlessly about the protests she led, and would never hesitate to kick a sign off of a lawn or scream her speeches from the top of a building.

 My father saw my sister’s endeavours as slightly less heroic. 

I remember squeezing my eyes shut as my mom drove me home from cheer practice, tensing my hands and feet, as if I could evaporate into thin air and never pass through those green garage doors again. That way, I wouldn’t have to look at every room of my house vandalised with the remnants of their arguments––the shattered wine glass in the sink, the dents in the walls, my mother’s shoes stationed at the back door ready for a quick escape.  

I hated the way my dad treated my sister, even if he only had the best intentions. I hated the way my mom cried when they argued, and hated the way my sister hid out on our roof to get away from him. Above all, I hated how he never hurt me. I hated the way I learned to be their little communicator, running up and down the stairs to pass written notes when they refused to speak to one another. I hated the way I was the only one that could calm him down, snuggling up beside him with my ipad, googling funny video compilation, in an attempt to hear his laugh. In retrospect, he probably only smiled to make me feel better, or because he felt bad about my sad attempts at comfort. 

My sister counted down the days before she left for university, as I dreaded the day she left––meaning that I would be left as an only child in this house. When she did leave, she moved across the country, taking everything with her except for a couple of books and a note for me. And things got better. My dad went to therapy. My mom stopped crying. We got a dog. In my teenage years, my father has become a completely different man than the one that raised my sister. 

I am plagued by this overwhelming guilt as I write about my father’s past mistakes, when he has always been so good to me. It is so hard to hate him, when it has always been clear that he is truly trying. 

As an immigrant, all my father has ever wanted is to see our success. He gave us everything. The food on our table, the clothes on our backs, the blood that runs through our veins. He believed––to some extent, that every screaming match, every tear that rolled down our cheeks, every fight––would be worth it in the end.

Last Christmas, on the rare occasion that my sister came back home, he did everything in his power to show her that he changed. My sister is not a guilt-free party. She provoked him, poking and prodding at his every insecurity, as my mother and I watched from across the table, pleading silently that he wouldn’t give in to her badgering. 

Finally, for the first time in nineteen years, my sister told him how she felt. 

“Baba, I know you want to see me successful. I know you want to see me happy. I know you want so much for me. But all I have ever wanted, all I have ever wished you expected from me––is to be your daughter. I wish you didn’t have to love me as anything else. Not as an accountant or a lawyer or a software engineer, I just wish, all I would have have to do for you to want me, is to be your fucking daughter.” Her lower lip quivered with every word as she continued, 

“You know, the last time I felt like you loved me, was that night years ago when we had that huge fight, and you told me you used to hold me, you used to hold me to the light and hope that I got better, because you loved me, and I was your daughter. Baba, please.” 

He stared right through my sister and closed his eyes for what felt like eternity. He dropped his chopsticks. He held his head in his hands, crying.