CHAPTER 110

2025-12-03

The previous article described how, in early 2006, after Lun moved into his residence, life at home for the remaining three of us became more relaxed—we had more time together and more chances to travel. When only two were left at home, it became ninety percent quieter.

In the blink of an eye, nearly twenty years have passed. In the middle of last year, my wife suddenly passed away due to acute illness. The remaining two family members are now just my younger son and me. At this moment he is 33, I am 66; together we are 99 years old. If one hopes to live to 100, the younger one has lived one third of his journey, while I have one third left. If life goes smoothly and I can live another ten comfortable years, anything beyond that is a bonus.

The first four months after my wife’s passing were an extraordinary time—a period of adjustment. While the two of us were grieving the loss of our closest loved one, we also had to confront the immediate crisis: handling urgent matters, understanding the nature and extent of the unfortunate event, reviewing finances and living conditions, and planning for the long term.

Thankfully, Lun has long been under the government’s high-quality and comprehensive care, so I did not have to divide my attention. And my younger son handled matters with great composure. When we learned how serious my wife’s/mother’s condition was, we immediately promised to support each other; this unspoken understanding has since become the foundation of our life together.

After clarifying our living conditions and confirming that there were no immediate obstacles or crises, we began to sort through my wife’s belongings and settle her unfinished matters in this world. To give our longing a place to rest, we chose to do only what felt comforting—never forcing ourselves to do anything against our hearts.

Generally speaking, if one is still unable to return to normal life after four months, one should consider seeking help—from friends, relatives, or a counsellor.

My wife loved shopping and dining out. I, however, prefer staying home. Without her to suggest outings, the frequency and duration of going out dropped sharply, and my daily schedule became much quieter.

The greatest difference in everyday life without her presence is that it has become ninety percent quieter. Looking back, my wife was the one who shaped our daily rhythm and atmosphere. After Lun was diagnosed with autism, she structured our entire life around him until the day he moved into his residence.

After Lun moved out, the remaining three of us had more time together and more chances to travel. My wife continued coordinating and directing the daily routines, the commander-in-chief. She was playful at heart—when watching shows, she often burst out laughing like a child. She could rewatch the same program endlessly, sharing her reactions each time. They say women speak five thousand words a day on average and men two thousand; she certainly met the target.

When my younger son and I are both at home, neither of us even speaks a thousand words a day.

The reasons:

(1) My younger son works rotating shifts, so his return time varies. I also have my own activities and appointments, reducing the time spent in the same space.

(2) When he is home, he often chats with friends online with his headphones on. To speak to him, I need to wave first. After knowing each other for decades, there are very few urgent matters requiring immediate discussion.

(3) Since university, he has been into fitness and insists on balanced nutrition; he cooks for himself. So the two of us eat separately.

(4) Men tend to speak by topic—there isn’t much small talk.

After my wife passed away, the two grown men of the Chan household lived quietly, except for one discussion where we debated the causes of the Russia-Ukraine war.