In the moments I’ve shared with my father,

He is warm yet resolute.

Always saving the best for us.

Yet one expresses oneself less.

He always says he’s doing just fine.

Just so you won’t worry.

He always shoulders the burdens for his family and moves forward.

Yet one’s own pace has slowed, and gray hairs have appeared.

A photo of my father, an unforgettable memory.

Today, let’s take a look together.

Those “exclusive memories” of my father

You are a resilient tree, and also a gentle ray of sunshine.

"Fatherly Love"

Huineng Coal Industry Ventilation Team

Lu Jizhong and his father, Lu Bin

“That was when I was a child, often sitting on my father’s shoulders—my father was the ladder that helped me reach for the sky, my father was the ox pulling the cart…” This song, “Father,” performed by Cui Jinghao, was once sung in every alley and on every street in the 1990s, familiar to everyone. Its simple, heartfelt lyrics moved countless listeners to tears, voicing the sentiments of children everywhere and stirring up so many cherished memories…

My father was born on December 7, 1953. He graduated from junior high school at the age of sixteen, just as China was plunged into the ten-year turmoil of the Cultural Revolution. To make ends meet, he learned carpentry, working in agriculture while also crafting furniture for villagers to help support his family. In 1974, he married my mother. From 1985 to 2004, he worked in sales at the Linfen City Composition Weekly. From 2005 to 2009, he was employed by Sigri Graphite, a Sino-German joint venture.

On April 21, 1975, a baby boy was born—me. My father was overjoyed, telling everyone he met, “I’ve got a son!” He used to hoist me onto his shoulders as if I were a little horse, tell me stories, and stroll with me, holding my tiny hand. In the height of summer, he would fan me to keep cool, and we’d go bathe together—each of these moments remains vivid in my memory.

In 1988, I was admitted to Zhangzhuang Town Middle School. My father often reminded me that, due to historical circumstances, his generation had missed out on educational opportunities. He was strict and frequently urged me to work twice as hard, emphasizing the importance of well-rounded development—moral, intellectual, physical, aesthetic, and labor‑related. In my second year of junior high, when I boarded at school, he brought my bedding and paid for my meals and food allowance; worried that the cafeteria might not provide adequate nutrition, he even sent dry rations. Though frugal himself, he regularly gave me pocket money. Later, as I went on to high school and university, he would make time to visit me. Each time I saw his figure receding into the distance, tears would well up in my eyes… After I graduated from college and began working, my father said earnestly, “Son, be united with your colleagues, follow your superiors’ instructions, and approach your work with diligence and a strong sense of responsibility.”

On the eve of the 2015 Spring Festival, my mother was diagnosed with a cerebral infarction at the Pingding County Traditional Chinese Medicine Hospital. The condition progressed to hemiplegia and eventually to complete paralysis. As her illness worsened and treatment proved ineffective, she passed away on September 25, 2017. Throughout her illness, my father cared for her attentively and without a single complaint. Her death came as a devastating blow, leaving him deeply shaken and withdrawn. My wife and I tried to comfort him, reminding him that his mother had endured excruciating pain and that her passing might, in a sense, bring her some measure of peace. We encouraged him to socialize more—playing cards, listening to opera, and going out for walks. Gradually, he began to regain his strength and spirit.

Fatherly love is stern yet strong, vast and profound, bestowing upon me resilience, self-reliance, perseverance, confidence, and tolerance. A father’s reprimands are rooted in the hope that his son will become a dragon and his daughter a phoenix. He is the pillar of the family—upright and towering. Fatherly love is like a mountain: silent yet deep.

This is my father: ordinary yet strong, simple yet sincere, kind and warm, solid and magnanimous. How can one not feel the boundless love of parents? So while there’s still time, let’s sit face to face with my aging father, have a good chat, share a meal together, and even wash his feet. Let’s cherish the man who loves me most in this world! Father, your son loves you—your kindness and generosity I could never fully repay!!!

As Father’s Day approaches, may time stand still, and may all fathers everywhere enjoy robust health, every wish fulfilled, and a long, blessed life!

Time flies—I miss you so much.

“Missing My Father”

Electromechanical Department, Zhongcun Coal Industry

Wang Guoqing and his father, Wang Bensen

I’ve longed to put my longing for my father into words, yet I never knew where to begin. After reading the headquarters’ call for submissions and finding encouragement, I resolved to pick up my pen and finally set free this sentiment that has lain buried in my heart for so long…

When I think it over, it’s been 26 years and four months since my father left us. Yet whenever I speak of him or come across an article about family love, tears well up uncontrollably. All the hard work he poured into his life has given my brother and me the comfortable life we enjoy today—while he, at a time when he should have been savoring peace and contentment, was taken from us forever.

My father was born on the 12th day of the ninth lunar month in 1936. Though he never went to school, even in those harsh and trying times, he held a deep, almost sacred reverence for education. He knew all too well that only knowledge could change one’s fate and help break free from the mountains. To support my brother and me in our studies, he toiled tirelessly, never once complaining. When my older brother was in school, his outstanding academic performance earned him a spot at Qinsui Middle School. Yet when it came to the monthly two yuan he needed for living expenses—no small sum in the late 1970s, when rural families had few means of earning a living—my father simply said, “Go ahead, study hard; I’ll see you through, even if I have to sell everything we own.” With his unwavering support, my brother managed to finish high school and gain admission to military academy, finally putting an end to our family’s struggles. As for me, I ended up testing my father’s patience. Ten years younger than my brother, by the time I received my acceptance letter, he was already getting on in years. Faced with tuition fees of 2,400 yuan, I began to think about giving up. But my father replied, “No matter how hard life gets, you must keep studying.” On the path of ensuring that both my brother and I could pursue our education, he kept his word, and thanks to him, we were able to complete our studies without fail.

From as far back as I can remember, my father toiled from dawn till dusk. In his youth, he drove a horse-drawn cart, hauling iron ore and slag; later, as he grew older, he ran a small shop in the village. To eke out even a little extra profit on the same goods, he would shuttle between several towns, traveling all the way to Houma to stock up. He tried every possible way to make ends meet. Throughout his life, he lived under the strain of financial hardship, and by the time we were finally able to earn our own living, he had fallen ill.

Not long ago, while rummaging through a drawer in the apartment above my hometown, I came across an old notebook. When I opened it, I found that it was the ledger my father kept when he ran a small shop in the village—filled with densely written entries recording the debts villagers owed for their purchases. Tears welled up and spilled down my face. It was these very records that documented our school fees and miscellaneous expenses, our textbook costs, and even the substantial sums I incurred during my years at vocational secondary school.

Today, the two of us brothers have become fathers ourselves: my elder brother’s son works at the Chinese Academy of Sciences in Beijing, and my own daughter is already a third-year university student. If our father in heaven could know this, he would surely feel immense joy and satisfaction.

It’s Father’s Day once again, and my heart full of longing can only flow along with my tears…

That love I had hidden away, I only realized it later.

“Love Like a Stone”

Qinhe Yonghong Coal Mine

Yang Chenhui and his father, Yang Jianbing

Cruel tenderness is wrapped within the stone.

——Epigraph

Father’s Day is just around the corner, and I can’t help but recall Zhu Ziqing’s essay “Back Shadow,” which I studied many years ago. It stirred deep emotions in me and brought to mind the saying, “A father’s love is like a mountain, while a mother’s love is like water.” I don’t quite understand why people put it that way, but I do know that I rarely feel my father’s meticulous, all‑encompassing care—and even less often do I respond with heartfelt gratitude.

The essay “Back View” captures Zhu Ziqing’s feelings about his father’s love in the wake of a series of family misfortunes. The death of his maternal grandmother and his father’s dismissal from his post were, for a young man barely twenty years old, nothing short of a devastating blow. In such circumstances, as the author watched his father’s unsteady, shuffling figure recede into the distance, he came to deeply appreciate the profound, abiding love his father bore for him. Think back to a day decades ago: a father who had just lost his job, amidst his busy life, managed to carve out a moment to see his son off at the station. Before parting, with great effort, he hoisted his stout body up onto the platform, then climbed down again to buy his son some oranges. Unaware of the depth of his father’s love at the time, the author could only watch that aged, stooped back and shed heartfelt tears. Moved by this poignant scene, I, too, was profoundly touched by the deep bond between father and son.

Looking back on the path of my growth, I have felt nothing but my mother’s love—soft and gentle as a drizzling rain. My father’s love, by contrast, is cold and hard, almost impenetrable, like a stubborn boulder that keeps me at a distance.

As a child, I fell ill with a persistent high fever. Lying in bed, half‑asleep, I heard my mother’s gentle, anxious calls; I clutched her soft, warm hand. Yet I never knew how many sleepless nights my father had endured. Even the slightly sweet‑tasting bitter medicine was brewed with painstaking care by him, and to bring my temperature down, he would tirelessly change the cloth on my forehead again and again.

When you achieve success through your own efforts, it’s your mother who beams with pride and praises you, while your father stands quietly behind you, suddenly dousing your enthusiasm with a dose of reality, reminding you to stay grounded and not get carried away. In truth, you don’t realize that he’s even happier than you are—but he never says so, never shows it; he remains as unyielding as stone, gently chipping away at the joy that fills your heart.

He teaches you something, but only once—perhaps when he showed you how to ride a bike, he never once steadied you, never paid attention to the scratches all over your body, like hard stones scraping against your tender, soft skin, so frightening that you dared not draw near. In truth, it was we who were too ignorant—so ignorant that we failed to see the flicker of heartache in my father’s eyes. After a long inner struggle between letting go and protecting you, he chose to let go, so that you might have a good life ahead.

This is the love my father gives me—cold and hard as stone, devoid of even the slightest warmth. In truth, it’s only because my eyes are still too young; I’ve seen only the surface of that stony paternal love, failing to perceive the burning heart hidden within. To truly understand that heart of stone is no easy feat.

There is a kind of love as steadfast as stone—fatherly love. He never puts it into words; when you’re happy, he’s happier than you; when you’re sad, he grieves even more deeply. Yet he never shows it, quietly tucking his love at the very tip of his heart, wrapping it in a cold, unyielding shell, so you’ll never notice…

Though fatherly love is silent, it burns as fiercely as the blazing sun.

"Fatherly Love"

Build a robust mixing station.

Wang Caiqing and her father, Wang Maorong

As I recall, my father was always stern and rarely smiled, his face perpetually set in a frown. He would urge us to do our homework and memorize our lessons every day. In his presence, my sisters and I never dared to speak loudly, for fear that even a single word might displease him.

I remember this happened in the second grade. One evening, just as school was about to let out, the weather had been clear—but suddenly a wave of purple light swept over everything. As soon as it passed, a streak of lightning stretched through the thick, layered clouds, looking like a famished giant python. The serpent opened its mouth and let out a deafening roar. A torrential downpour raged on, while bright bolts of lightning darted across the sky like silver serpents. I thought to myself, “Oh no—this rain is coming down so hard; how am I going to get home?”

Just as I was at a loss, my father’s figure came into view. He called out my childhood nickname anxiously, calming the restlessness in my heart. With one hand slung over my shoulder and the other clutching an umbrella, he led the way. The country path was uneven, dotted with little puddles, and mud splattered onto his trouser legs from time to time. Yet he paid it no mind, his eyes fixed on the road ahead, his hand firmly supporting me, lest I slip or fall.

As we walked along the edge of a wide irrigation canal, the rushing water roared, as if challenging me. Dad said to me gently, “Don’t be afraid—Dad’s right here.” He felt his way carefully, checking the path, and held me even more tightly. Suddenly, with a sharp snap, Dad stumbled and fell; a small pebble had pierced the skin on his leg, and bright red blood began to flow. I nestled close to his ear, sobbing. Dad smiled and said, “It’s nothing—no big deal,” then got up and pressed on, carrying me on his back the entire time.

Back home, I hurried to use saline solution to disinfect my father. As I sat up, I suddenly noticed a few strands of gray hair at his temples. Tears welled in my eyes; in that silent moment, I felt as though I had finally understood the depth of my father’s love.

Fatherly love is like a thousand-year-old wine—bold yet pure; it is like aged vinegar—bitter yet richly fragrant; it is like the mountain songs of my hometown—raw and unrefined, yet brimming with deep affection…

With so many roles to juggle, being Dad’s girl is the easiest of all.

“Fatherly Love Is Like a Mountain—Deep Feelings, Simple Words”

Qinhe General Management Department

He Mingxin and her father, He Yongxiang

Opening my phone’s photo album, I see almost nothing but pictures of my son… From the moment he came into our lives, every day has been consumed by thoughts of him—worried that he might cry, yet also afraid he won’t; afraid he’ll go hungry, yet worried he’ll eat too much; afraid he’ll start walking too late, yet dreading that he might stumble and get hurt; afraid of spoiling him, yet fearing he’ll be unhappy; afraid he’ll never grow up, yet anxious that he’ll mature all too quickly… And then I can’t help but think: over these past thirty-odd years, weren’t my own parents just as simple, just as tenderly, pouring their whole hearts into loving me?

I wanted to say something to my father on Father’s Day, but words fail me—so many thoughts, yet I’m left speechless.

My father was the only son in the family, and I was an only daughter. In a rural setting where sons were favored over daughters, I was doted on by my father, who always did his utmost to give me the very best.

I remember when I was little, hiking up the mountain to visit relatives—I’d always try to slack off and let my father carry me. But every time I asked him to set me down, he’d say, “I’m not tired; I’ll carry you a bit longer.” Once we got home, he’d beam and tell everyone, “My daughter was really amazing today—she walked such a long way all by herself.”

After I started school, my father was always worried that I wouldn’t eat well or dress warmly and might be treated unfairly. He would rather live frugally himself than let me lack for anything, always giving me more money than I asked for.

After starting work, I live far from home and see him less often. Every time I video call or talk to my father, I can clearly feel his joy and concern through the screen. He listens patiently with a smile, every word I say. And whenever he coughs even once, he worries and keeps reminding me to take good care of myself when I’m out.

On my wedding day, my father walked silently just out of reach—neither too close nor too far—wearing his usual gentle smile, seeing me off to the edge of the village and watching me go. Later, I heard my mother say that his eyes had been red from crying that day.

Since we had a child, Dad has taken on an extra layer of worry. Every day, he waits for me to send him little videos of his grandson; if I miss a day or two, he starts fretting and worrying about us.

That is how my father loves me—simply yet profoundly. Now, time has etched layer upon layer of weathered wisdom and silver into his temples, and his back has grown stooped before he even realized it. Yet he remains the pillar of our home, a haven in stormy times, quietly giving without complaint or expectation of return.

I’ve come to understand the line from Wang Shuo’s “I Am Your Father”: “When I was little, I feared them; as I grew older, I began to find them annoying; later, I looked down on them; and still later, just thinking of them fills my heart with sorrow.” Fatherly love runs deep—its weight is a debt I could never repay, no matter how hard I try in this lifetime. I am grateful to my father, who toiled his whole life and gave everything for me, doing all he could to make me happy. All I ask is that time would slow its pace, so my father need never grow old again.

From childhood to this day, you’ve always been my hero.

"Dad"

Qinhe Houcun Coal Mine

Gao Ke and his father, Gao Tingshe.

Ever since I can remember, my father has been helping my grandfather with carpentry and building houses, toiling from dawn till dusk, day after day, year after year. All year round, his only free time was on rainy days or during the winter when construction was impossible. It was only then that he’d hop on his beloved 125cc motorcycle, take my mother and me to my grandmother’s house or to some scenic spot by the water, treating us to little trips that filled our family of three with cherished moments.

That’s right—sometimes, after a rainstorm, he even puts on his rubber boots, grabs his tools, and heads out to “climb the mountain.” To be honest, the wild wood ear mushrooms he harvests are of such high quality that even the foremen who hire him for the job praise his skills: they’re really excellent!

Back then, I thought my dad could do anything and knew everything—any problem that seemed insurmountable? Just bring it to him. He was the very embodiment of sunshine, pure oxygen, and rock-solid security, an impenetrable fortress.

It wasn’t until one noon in 2007, when I was in junior high and nearly home from school, that my father hurried out, his eyes red and swollen. He bent down, half‑hugging me as he trembled and said, “Go home—don’t be afraid, and don’t dare to cry. Your grandfather is gone.” That was the first time I ever saw him shed tears—and it also marked the beginning of a shift in my mindset, as I learned to stand on my own.

In the blink of an eye, it was 2018. Grandma passed away after a long illness, and Dad wept so bitterly that he could no longer even kneel; even when relatives tried to steady him, he couldn’t stand up. I dared only to whisper, “Let him cry—it’s the only way he can find some peace.” For more than half a year after the funeral, I would often catch Dad sitting in the yard, cigarette clenched between his lips, staring into space. Each time, my heart would ache with sympathy, yet I never knew what to do.

I can’t feel my father’s sadness; all I know is that my dad has lost his parents. As for me, I must care for, understand, and honor my own parents even more.

My dad spent his entire life as a farmer—honest and down-to-earth, not much of a talker. He’d quietly save the best food for me, and he always took on all the dirty, hard, and exhausting chores around the house. Even when our family was struggling financially while I was studying out of province, he made sure my living expenses were deposited into my account on time, every single month. And the happy life we enjoy today? He’s earned it, one step at a time, with his calloused hands and a back bent from years of toil.

On May 26 this year, I was terribly worried that my dad would stumble and embarrass himself at my wedding, because when I asked him beforehand, he just said, “I’ll wing it.” As the ceremony began, the master of ceremonies handed him the microphone: “Thank you so much to all our family and friends for taking time out of your busy schedules to attend my son and daughter-in-law’s wedding. Please enjoy the meal and have a great time—should there be anything we’ve overlooked, we hope you’ll forgive us. Thank you all!”

His remarks were concise, delivered at a measured pace, with a deep, resonant voice. When Dad finished, the room erupted in thunderous applause—lasting for what felt like an eternity…

We often say that a mother’s love is great.

But there’s less care for my father.

I always feel like he’s invincible.

However, after the passage of time…

They, too, will grow old and pretend to be strong.

It turns out he’s not an invincible superhero.

He also needs care and attention.

This Father’s Day, say to your dad:

Happy Father’s Day!

Time flies—may you remain as spirited and full of vigor as you were back then!