CHAPTER 96

2025-10-17

Three months before emigrating, I resigned from my job. With some provident funds and modest savings, my wife and I went shopping for clothes and books, enjoying what turned out to be the most leisurely three months of our lives.

At the end of May 1988, in Hong Kong, I finished my last day of work. The next day, my wife, Lun, and I went to visit my parents. As soon as we entered the living room, I noticed a letter lying on the round glass dining table—it was addressed to me. Opening it, I discovered it was from the Canadian Consulate in Hong Kong, notifying us that our family’s professional immigration application had been approved, and that we could report to Canada after a certain date.

We were overjoyed! That letter was truly sunshine after a sudden rain. For the three of us, learning of the approval on the very first day after I left my job meant we could now prepare for our move to Canada with peace of mind. Naturally, I immediately shared the news with my mother.

Later, my younger son would half-jokingly criticize my wife and me for having been rather reckless in our immigration dealings—and this incident could well be Exhibit A. I had resigned from my social service job before knowing the outcome of our immigration application—not because I was confident of approval, but because of an unsettling event that had occurred at my workplace a few weeks earlier.

One day, my department head was suddenly dismissed without explanation. The management provided no details, leaving all of us colleagues shocked. After discussion, we decided to write to the chairman of the board to express our concern. However, the letter was returned without reply or comment. When I told my wife about it at home, she thought for a moment and said, “That’s like knocking on someone’s door—when it opens, the chairman sees who it is, says nothing, and simply closes the door again. Returning the letter means: please leave; pretend this never happened.”

Feeling completely disregarded, we decided I should not stay in such a place. The next day, I submitted my resignation letter. The executive director, after reading it, asked whether I could stay until the end of the month. I replied that I would follow the minimum notice period required under the Employment Ordinance, as stated in my letter.

A university classmate, upon hearing that I had resigned, kindly informed me of a temporary invigilator position with the Examination Authority. I was touched by the thoughtfulness—my thanks again, even now.

Ironically, the executive director herself had already arranged for immigration long ago. Every two months, she would take leave and live abroad for another two months. The organization was left headless, and the acting replacements dared not take full responsibility. “Work from home” didn’t exist in those days, and with such lax management, it was inevitable that the “chickens in the coop” began to rebel. Witnessing this, I grew increasingly disillusioned.

Once I resigned, it felt as though shackles had been lifted. With my provident fund and modest savings, my wife and I went shopping for clothes and books (those books still sit on our shelves today), and we enjoyed the most carefree three months of our lives.

As for the next act in this story—well, that belongs to another chapter.