One of my teachers once asked my class what our favourite memory was. She was asking for the moment in which “you felt the best, you felt that you had the world in the palm of your hand. ” Some described grand awards; others described winning a tournament. But I felt the best when I first learned how to ride my bike at thirteen. I didn’t mind my classmate’s stares and snickering, because I knew there was more to the story.

My brother and I shared a typical brotherly relationship: we couldn’t stand each other. Or, to be honest, he couldn’t stand me. I hero-worshipped him. My clothes mysteriously looked like his, and even my words tended to mimic those I heard from him. Many times, I even wanted to literally follow my brother, sobbing every time I was prevented from hanging around with him. Needless to say, I was an annoyance to him. Any sort of conversation we had usually degraded to fighting, and try as I might, my brother usually won.

After a while, I stopped trying to impress him and learned to be totally indifferent; perhaps the silent treatment would get more approval. I was wrong. We soon fell into a sad pattern—I avoided him, he ignored me, and deep inside, it hurt. Indifferent or hostile, he was only a brother in name. So that’s how it was between us. I believed we would forever be apart, two housemates without conversation, two strangers without warmth. And nothing more.

I still remember the day I learned to ride a bike. I had received it that Christmas, which was great, until I realized I had no idea how to ride it. My mom was too busy and had long since abandoned any attempt to teach me. I decided to teach myself to ride, a little bit each day, but in vain. On that fateful day, it was no different. I was coming to the end of my daily one-hour torture, and I was so frustrated that I threw my bike aside and began to cry.

I guess that was what caused my brother to come outside.

An hour later, I was showing off my riding skill to my mom.

I will always remember the time when my friend Jeff Holstrom told me about his family. His father, a successful physician, cold and strict in Jeff’s words, had firm beliefs that a person would never make a valuable contribution to the world unless they attended and graduated from college by the age of twenty-three. His father had even paved the way for Jeff to attend the same college from which he had graduated.

Jeff was twenty-seven and a successful business planner at a company — without a degree. His passion was skiing. When he graduated from high school, he decided to decline his father’s offer and, instead, to work with a ski patrol (滑雪巡逻队). With pain in his eyes, Jeff told me he still remembered the day when he told his father he was going to give up college and take a job at a ski resort. Hearing Jeffs decision, his father looked off into the distance. Then came the words that still echoed in Jeff’s mind: “You lazy kid. No son of mine is going to work with a ski patrol and does not attend college. Don’t come back in this house until you have enough self-respect to use the brains God gave you and go to school!” The two had not spoken since that conversation.

Later, he was back in the area near where he grew up and he certainly did not want his father to know he was attending college. He was doing this for himself, not for his father. Jeff’s sister had always remained supportive of Jeff’s decisions. She stayed in contact with their father, but Jeff had made her promise that she would not share any information about his life with him.

The day of the graduation ceremony came, I walked around talking to people before it started. I noticed a man with a confused expression.

“Excuse me,” he said as he politely approached me. “What is happening here today?”

“It’s graduation day,” I replied, smiling. “Well, that’s odd, he said, “my daughter asked me to meet her at this address.” His eyes sparkled and he smiled. “Maybe she completed her associate’s degree (副学士学位) and wanted to surprise me!”

I helped him find a seat.

As I left him, he said, “Thank you. By the way, my name’s Dr. Holstrom.”

Jeff was the last person to step onto the stage.

I liked sitting with my dad in his study every night when I was young after he came home from the office. I’d watch as he put his personal items away: his watch, wallet, comb and car keys would always occupy the same spot on the table every time. It was as if he could see invisible lines drawn specifically for these things, not a centimeter more or less.

What impressed me was Dad’s comb which was jade green. I heard he bought it when he married Mum, which made the comb two years older than I was. Every night, he would smile, hand me the comb and say, “Be a good girl and help Daddy clean it, OK?”

This task brought me such joy at the age of five. I would excitedly turn the tap on, and then brush the comb with a used toothbrush as hard as I could. Satisfied that I’d done a good job, I would proudly return the comb to Dad. He would smile at me and place the comb on top of his wallet.

Two years later, Dad left his sales job and started his own wholesale business. I started primary school. That was when things started to change. Dad’s business wasn’t doing so well, and our stable life started getting shaky. He didn’t come home as much as he used to — just a couple of times a week. And when he did come home, it was always late and I’d already be in bed. I started to get mad. Why didn’t he listen to Mum and just stick to his old job? Why took the risk and placed the whole family in trouble? Over the years, I stopped waiting for him to come home, and stopped going downstairs to check on him. Today, I’m no longer a kid.

Now I have grown up. I’ve graduated from college and got a job. Dad’s business has also started to get back on track. Things are better now. Yet the uncomfortable silence between Dad and me persisted. Two days before my birthday last year, Dad came home early. As usual, I helped him carry his bags into his study. When I turned to leave, he said, “Hey, would you like to help me clean my comb? ”

Looking at him a while, I took the comb and headed to the sink. ________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

I handed the clean comb back to Dad. ________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________