Parental Love: The Journey to Escape the Shadow

The bustling streets of H City, where the bright lights and car horns merged, suddenly blurred through a film of tears. Lu Thu Thu, the girl who had just topped the exams to enter the prestigious Tsinghua University, stood still in the luxury hotel lobby, clutching her suitcase. The lavish trip she had earned with twelve years of relentless studying, the trip promised as a worthy reward, ended so abruptly and unbelievably.

Waking up the next morning, the hotel room was empty. Her parents—the people she constantly tried to prove her worth to—had vanished without a trace, not even a note. They had left in a hurry, leaving Thu Thu alone in an unfamiliar city, thousands of kilometers from home. Ironically, she was their biological daughter.

Hours later, the bitter truth was exposed. On her social media, her adopted sister, Lu Keke, posted a photo: her parents were walking hand-in-hand with Keke in a shopping mall, their faces beaming with happiness. The caption screamed at Thu Thu: “My dearest family is all mine today.”

In that moment, Thu Thu’s heart didn’t ache with intense pain as before, only extreme coldness. She silently typed a short comment and left decisively: “That’s good. They belong to you now, too.”

Thu Thu huddled in a secluded corner of the hotel, gazing at the distant, crowded beach. She neither cried nor screamed like in her past disappointments. Her mind was blank, and a salty tear stream rolled down her cheek without warning.

The ring of her phone brought her back to reality. It was her mother.

“What kind of comment was that? Your sister is crying her eyes out. Apologize to her right now, or we will never forgive you.”

Immediately followed by her father’s text, a hurried, familiar explanation: “Your sister’s heart condition relapsed, which is why we had to leave. It was sudden, so we didn’t have time to tell you. Don’t take it to heart.”

Thu Thu put down the phone, a bitter smile on her face. Did Lu Keke have superpowers? Once again, the excuse of a “heart condition” was used to destroy her rare moment of happiness. Every joy, every bit of attention she won from her parents, was snatched away by Keke using this trick. She had fought for years to compete, to prove herself, to beg for a little fair love.

“Do other children also have to confirm their parents’ love little by little like I do?” Thu Thu wondered, then pursed her lips and deleted the comment that had caused her parents’ “panic.” She made a decision: She would not compete anymore.

She stayed by the sea for three more days alone, looking at the ocean she had dreamt of seeing with her family. All the fantasies of commemorative photos and writing their names in the sand had shattered. Three days later, when the hotel reminder came about the prepayment expiring, her parents suddenly remembered the existence of their biological daughter thousands of miles away.

Her mother sent a text, along with 50,000 yuan: “Did you have fun? If you want to stay a few more days, I’ll transfer the money to you.”

Thu Thu typed back: “The sea is beautiful, I’ve had enough fun. Coming home today.”

The reply came instantly, cruel and absolute: “Stay and play more. Keke is not in a good mood because of your answer. She doesn’t want to see you.”

That was the moment Thu Thu realized the pain hadn’t bottomed out yet. She didn’t go home. She checked out, planned her own route, and began a solo trip that lasted a whole month.

She went to Northeast China, standing amidst the vast, deep green forest, inhaling the fresh air. Her heart suddenly felt strangely open. Why had she confined herself to a tiny corner, just to fight for the affection of someone who constantly faked illness? The years spent chasing her parents’ attention were a sheer waste.

When her parents called and texted, blaming her and comparing her to Keke, she simply replied: “I’m not angry, don’t overthink it. I’ll come back when I’m tired of traveling.” The notification of a money transfer followed—their way of showing “reconciliation” without feeling. Thu Thu didn’t respond; she fully enjoyed her freedom, firm in one thought: “My life should have been a journey of wandering.”

She returned home a month later.

Her mother and Keke were stunned. Keke pouted unhappily, while her mother looked surprised and pleased. But as soon as Thu Thu mentioned she wasn’t eating the fruit because she was tired from the train journey, everything fell back into the old pattern.

“Lu Thu Thu, are you sulking right after you get back? Your sister has poor health; you should yield to her.” Her mother glared.

Keke smiled triumphantly. Thu Thu suddenly understood: they always assumed all her actions were “competing” and “sulking.”

She gave a faint smile, composedly stating: “I said I’m not eating because I couldn’t get a flight, I took a train for over ten hours and I’m too tired to eat. I just want to rest, please don’t misunderstand.”

When she opened her room door, a horrifying sight greeted her: her precious books were scattered all over the floor, Keke’s dirty clothes piled on the hanger, and even the birthday teddy bear she had kept for years was ripped apart.

Lu Keke, sitting in the living room, immediately clutched her chest and fell over.

Her mother instantly glared at Thu Thu, rushing to help Keke up. “Why are you bullying her as soon as you get back? Lu Thu Thu, what do you want from me to be satisfied?”

Thu Thu didn’t argue back, just calmly looked at her angry mother. “I only said a few words since I returned, and even though Keke ruined my room, I haven’t even glanced at her. Please tell me where I went wrong?”

The question left her mother speechless, rooted to the spot. Keke then opened her eyes, clinging to her mother’s sleeve, acting out: “Mom, I’m scared big sister is angry, scared she doesn’t like me.”

Her mother looked coldly at Thu Thu: “If anything happens to Keke, I will hold you accountable.”

Thu Thu merely shrugged. She knew Keke was fine. She gathered all of Keke’s belongings and threw them outside, including the teddy bear that had once been a symbol of her parents’ love. It didn’t matter anymore. She climbed into bed and slept soundly.

Upon waking, she decided to accept Tsinghua’s early summer training camp invitation. She was done with enduring. The love of my parents, if I can’t have it, then so be it. But what is mine must remain mine.

Two days later, Keke recovered. Her parents looked awkward. This time, they started making small changes, treating her more cautiously and somewhat fairly. They bought the same fruit, and initiated conversations. But Thu Thu was hardened.

When her father reached for her mango plate, Thu Thu gently reminded him: “This is my ordinary fruit. Keke’s imported mangoes are still in the fridge. I haven’t touched them.”

Her father stiffened: “Thu Thu, I didn’t mean that, I just…”

Keke interrupted, as if on cue: “Dad, I want shrimp in oil sauce tonight.”

Her father immediately turned to her. The fairness only lasted a few seconds.

Then, Keke collapsed again as usual. Thu Thu got up, took a step back, and held up her hands. “I didn’t do anything, didn’t say anything. I didn’t even cut the fruit. You all figure it out yourselves.”

She went back to her room. Her parents hammered on the door, her mother yelling in anger: “Lu Thu Thu, your father and I are treating you fairly now, what more do you want?”

Thu Thu bowed deeply to her mother: “I apologize, I shouldn’t have come back to this house. It’s all my fault. Now, please quickly take your precious daughter to the hospital.”

She closed the door, hearing her parents arguing outside. They believed she was pretending to be calm, pretending not to compete to show her anger. She was too tired to explain, so she put on her headphones and continued studying.

On her birthday morning, Lu Thu Thu pulled her suitcase out of the house alone. Her parents were still not back from the hospital. She was no longer surprised or sad. She knew her birthday, which coincided with Keke’s adoption day, had long been overshadowed. She had become a shadow at her own birthday party.

She celebrated alone, ordering her favorite strawberry cake. As she closed her eyes to make a wish, her mother’s text arrived: “Thu Thu, your father and I will be back later. Keke is sulking, we need to spend more time with her. Don’t mind us.”

In the late afternoon, her parents returned, bringing half of a blueberry cake—Keke’s favorite.

“Thu Thu, it’s your birthday too. Happy birthday,” her mother pushed the cake towards her.

Thu Thu politely replied: “Thank you, Mom and Dad, but I’ve already eaten.”

Her parents were awkward. Her father offered: “Thu Thu, how about we organize a separate birthday party for you tomorrow?”

Thu Thu shook her head: “No need. My birthday is today, not tomorrow.”

Her parents looked embarrassed, realizing they had forgotten that she couldn’t eat blueberries. But Thu Thu no longer cared. She had pleaded, even cried, hundreds of times for a separate birthday, but they always refused, accusing her of being petty and competitive. Now that they offered, it felt meaningless.

In the following days, her parents were strangely cautious, showing forced attention. They woke her up, served her favorite dishes. Keke faked illness a few more times, but this time, her parents only frowned and asked directly: “Is it really serious?”

Keke’s drama no longer worked.

One day, her mother smiled and offered to take her shopping. Keke collapsed immediately. This time, her mother suppressed her anger and said coldly: “Keke, Thu Thu is our daughter too. You can’t keep acting this way. We’ve given you so much love, but you must remember, Thu Thu is our biological daughter.”

Keke looked at her mother with astonishment, her eyes red. She truly fainted. Her father, standing nearby, his voice devoid of patience, added: “Keke, you’re not a child anymore. Stop using this method to compete for affection.”

A few minutes passed, and Keke didn’t wake up. Her parents began to genuinely worry. They hurried downstairs with Keke in their arms, not sparing Thu Thu, who was sitting beside them, a glance.

During her school reunion, Thu Thu found a flurry of missed calls. Her father called, his voice urgent: “Thu Thu, Keke is really sick this time, don’t be angry. We’ll take you shopping after she’s discharged.”

Thu Thu laughed, a hint of helplessness in her voice: “No need. I’m leaving tomorrow.”

The line went silent. Her mother called back, her voice panicked: “Thu Thu, why aren’t you home? Where are you?”

Thu Thu politely replied: “I finished eating with my classmates and I’m at the Cao Thinh hotel.” Her mother insisted on picking her up. Thu Thu waited for a long time. It was a summer night, but she felt cold. Finally, she hailed a ride and silently returned home.

The next morning, her parents were still not back. Thu Thu dragged her suitcase, quietly closing the door, just like countless times before, nothing special.

Seven days later, when she turned her phone back on, a barrage of pleading and blaming messages from her parents flooded in.

Her mother asked about the letter she had left. Thu Thu pursed her lips, knowing it was the draft of the parent-child relationship termination form she had asked a connection to prepare.

She called back, coldly stating: “I’m in training. I told you before. I had to turn off my phone for security reasons.”

Her mother paused, then continued: “Thu Thu, you weren’t like this before. Why didn’t you wait for us to come back and see you off?”

Thu Thu sighed: “If I waited, I would probably be late.”

A few seconds of silence, then her mother sighed softly. “Is the camp over now? I’ll book a flight for you. Keke is much better now. I’ll keep my promises to take you shopping and pick you up.”

Thu Thu interrupted: “No need. I’m busy and can’t go back. I’ll buy my own clothes.”

Her mother’s voice grew frantic: “But Thu Thu, your father’s birthday is in three days.”

Hearing that, Thu Thu’s heart clenched. For years, she had meticulously prepared gifts for her parents. But no matter how hard she tried, in their eyes, it was less than a simple wish from Lu Keke.

“I’m not coming back. I’m busy with my university enrollment,” she cut in coldly, then hung up.

What she didn’t expect was that this time, they truly came to find her. Just her parents, without Lu Keke. Seeing her, they rushed forward.

“Thu Thu, we know we favored Keke more over the years because of her condition. It’s natural for you to be upset. But the person we love the most will always be you.” They handed her the stack of papers—the termination form—but she didn’t take it.

Seeing her coldness, her mother’s tears flowed freely. “Thu Thu, no matter what, we are your parents. Even if we favored Keke, you can’t deny your own flesh and blood because of it.”

Flesh and blood? Thu Thu paused, recalling every moment of her upbringing. Nothing had ever made her feel that so-called kinship.

Seeing her lack of reaction, her father’s eyes also reddened. “Thu Thu, you weren’t like this before.” That’s right. Before, she had desperately craved their attention. Just fairness would have satisfied her. But they couldn’t give it. Now, she no longer needed it.

They stood in silence until her father’s phone rang. It was Lu Keke. Thu Thu remained there. Keke was sobbing hysterically over the phone. “Mom and Dad, I’m in so much pain. I want you to be here with me.”

Her father looked at Thu Thu, carefully observing her expression. Then, he calmly spoke into the phone: “You are an adult soon; don’t you know how to call 120?” He decisively hung up.

He reached out to hold her. Thu Thu gently shook her head, took a step back, and walked towards the school gate, silently, without looking back.

From that day on, they remained silent for a long time, not initiating contact.

Half a month later, her mother sent a text. Lu Keke had passed away due to her heart condition, which could not be saved in time. Thu Thu did not reply. The person who had used her heart condition to suppress her all her life, ended up dying from that very heart condition. It was a fitting end.

After that, her parents frequently visited the school to see her. Each time, Thu Thu maintained a polite but distant attitude. Eventually, to be closer to her, they even sold their old house. But even though they tried to compensate, she remained emotionally detached.

A parent’s love is not something that can be taken out and put away like a toy. It needs to be nurtured from childhood. She had yearned for it so much; mere fairness would have satisfied her. But they couldn’t give it. Now, she no longer needs it.

Lu Thu Thu stepped through the Tsinghua gate, her eyes fixed forward, towards a future where she would forge a brilliant and free life, no longer anyone’s shadow.