Family Scruples
Family Scruples
I was reading business related documents this morning when I head my friend’s parents talking to each other at the stairway. Apparently something was upsetting
my friend’s mother. I could hear her sobbing now and again. I waked my friend
up and wanted him to inquire what happened.
But it was until noon that my friend’s father came upstairs to tell us what happened. It was related to my friend’s grandfather, G, who passed away not long ago. G had three children in his life time, and unfortunately my friend’s father was his least favourite. As a result, my friend’s father didn’t expect to inherit anything from the funeral, except for two or three items that could remind
him of his father and past days: The watch chain imprinted with his father’s full name and a hand saw he used to see his father use in the garden had not much
of value but had meant a lot for him. He wanted to keep them.
But this morning when he went down to visit his mother, who had lost her short memory long time ago, he was informed that all the items had been sent for the auction by his two sisters. He was kept unknown all the time while they did this.
He got home and told the news to my friend’s mother. She got upset about it. But we all knew that she was upset nothing for the loss of the value of those items, but for the blunt indifference G’s daughters to their father in front of money.
They used to be G’s favourites. Who could believe that, as soon as he died, they couldn’t wait to even his property and belongings. You can’t see a sign of personal attachment in their doings. In contrast, it was only my friend’s father, the one G dislike that wanted to keep G in his memory and lingered on those past family days. Isn’t life ironical? If G knew what is going on, I wonder what
he would think.
It reminded me of what happened in my family during the recent years. Similar to
my friend’s father, my father has never a cup of tea for his parents. So in most of his youthful days he struggled alone, from joining the army to marring my
mother, and from building up our own house in the countryside to relocating it later to town. His parents, though fairly well off, never tried to help. Then when my parents had us three children, they hardly liked us either.
But in contrast to what they treated my father, they were willing to do anything
for their younger son and daughter. At one year, they passed their house onto their youngest son in a half-selling and half-offering way; then some years later
, when the son went to the other city and sold the house to the youngest daughter, they paid the house running expenditure for the daughter and thought they must deserve a bit respect and reverence. But it was just last year that the daughter asked them to move away with a dubious excuse.
Now they bought a house in my town. But nobody came to help them relocate. Except my father. It was my father who went to visit them and help them around most of the time. And it was my father who invited them to dinner whenever there was a
festival, who called on them at a regular basis, and who accompanied them to hospital when they were not well.
For all this, I like my freind's father, as well as mine, for their principles;
and I like his mother, as well as mine, for being understanding and supportive.
But on the other hand, I wonder that if some people can ever learn from their misjudgements and unjustified prejudices, and that if people can remember that not
all the penniless flattering and tears are sincere. Like now, my father’s parents still walk around to complain that my father isn’t good enough for them; and the mother of my friend’s father is still bitter about her son over nothing.
Listening to these family scruples alone made me chill; it seems there was no justice, and there was no end.But on the other hand, I guess it, like running across bitter but insightful novels, could serve as a good reminder, letting me remember and cherish what’s important in my life...
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