Time flies like an arrow. Your gentle voice and radiant smile, your warmth and grace, still linger vividly in my memory. And yet, in the blink of an eye, the relentless passage of time has allowed the sun and moon to cycle through ten long years...
Was it the will of Heaven—or the cruel mockery of fate?
Though ten years of torment have brought me back from the brink of death and allowed me to raise our beloved daughter into adulthood, life has not turned out as we had hoped. She is no longer the same precious daughter we once knew, and I can no longer call myself a devoted or competent father with pride.
I ask myself time and again where I went wrong, but I have no clear answers. All I know is that I have failed to live up to the sacred trust you placed in me. On the occasion of this solemn tenth anniversary of your passing, I once again beg your forgiveness and pray that your spirit may help mend the widening rift between father and daughter.
I do not know if my plea aligns with Heaven’s will. But beyond this prayer, I am at a loss. I have no other means left.
(In solemn remembrance of your 30th heavenly birthday.)
- Remembrance
You came into this world in haste—and left just as swiftly. With sorrow in your heart and love unspoken, you departed without a word, without a farewell. In your final moments, you summoned all your strength to open your eyes one last time, gazing with deep affection at those dearest to you—especially our kind, beautiful little princess—reluctantly holding her tender little hand. That instant marked our eternal farewell. Whether you were ready or not, before you could speak your heart, fate had already cruelly stolen your final chance…
You arrived in this world full of hope and longing, carrying a heart full of kindness and gentleness, believing this earthly life to be filled with love and beauty. From Heaven’s gates, you must have looked down countless times, mesmerized by this enchanting realm: Rainbows arching across sapphire skies, sunlight warm and golden, a world teeming with vibrant life. In the woodlands, all creatures played in peace, while people lived in harmony. In the lush gardens of Eden, among the songs of birds and the bloom of flowers, lovers whispered sweet words and leaned close like a pair of affectionate lovebirds, sharing their hearts and dreams…
That was the paradise you longed for. You pleaded with God to let you descend into this dreamlike world—for it was the home of your ideals. But perhaps through a twist of fate, the gods misplaced you, casting you instead into a world entirely foreign to your soul: The sky was grey, the earth barren, and everywhere you turned there was oppression, deceit, cruelty, and fear. The grotesque, distorted reality left you bewildered and afraid.
Suddenly, into your sight stumbled a frightened little lamb—desperate, panting, fleeing from the jaws of a ravenous wolf. Exhausted beyond measure, it was still relentlessly pursued. With nowhere to hide, its trembling body cried out in terror, too weak to even stand, yet its eyes still clung to the hope of survival. In despair, it looked around, searching for even the faintest chance of life...
The scene pierced your heart. You could not bear to watch a fragile life be torn apart. Forgetting your own weakness, caring nothing for your own safety—you, a delicate young woman—rushed forward without hesitation, swept that small life into your arms, and fled that field of death with all your strength…
You fled into a wilderness cloaked in endless darkness. There was no one—no warmth, no food, no fragrance of flowers, nor birdsong—only howling winds and merciless thunder and lightning. The shrill cries from the distant mountains left you lost and afraid. There was no place to rest your weary body. And yet, you gently cradled that only companion in your arms, trying to soothe its trembling with your warmth. Rain lashed endlessly from the heavens. Though soaked to the bone, you shielded it with your own clothes from the storm.
Falling to your knees, you pleaded with God to let you return to that paradise you had once dreamed of—not this earthly purgatory. But it was too late. You struggled to understand this world. You tried to exchange your compassion and kindness for even the smallest place to stand, willing to give everything. But despite all you offered, you were never truly accepted or understood. You searched tirelessly for the way back to your dreamworld, yet this world was a maze—no matter how you struggled, you could not escape the cruel mockery and torment of fate.
You were so gentle, and so good. You could never understand why, in a world so vast, there was no place for you to simply be. Your pure, compassionate soul could not comprehend the injustice and cruelty that reigned here. And so, carrying sorrow beyond words, bearing pain and grief too heavy to speak, and with deep worry and reluctant longing—you broke free from the chains of this demonic world, and returned to the paradise that should have always been your home…
- Childhood
At the tender age of four, your family could no longer sustain itself on your father’s meager wages alone. Fortunately, your uncle and aunt extended a loving hand and brought you into their rural home, raising you as their own.
Each night, as twilight settled over the countryside, your aunt—though weary from a full day’s labor—would never let her little princess go to bed disappointed. With soft whispers, she would weave for you enchanting fairy tales, opening a door to a world of wonder. You, with a sweet smile on your face, nestled into her warm arms, would drift peacefully into dreams…
Time passed gently. Though life in the countryside was simple, it was also filled with warmth, thanks to your aunt’s boundless love. Whenever your uncle took you visiting from village to village, your aunt would stuff your tiny pockets full of treats, worried you might go hungry. The scent of those snacks, mingled with sunlight over the fields and laughter from your playmates, wrapped your childhood in a tender embrace of rustic affection.
You loved the countryside—the free air, the unpretentious life, the sincerity of people, so different from the guarded hearts of the cities. Village children adored you, treating you like a precious gem. Together you raced along pond banks and field paths, weaving through forest trails with joyous abandon. In your heart, you dreamed a thousand times that one day, a prince on a white horse would kneel before you and vow eternal love…
The seasons turned, stars wheeled through the skies, and you blossomed into a graceful young woman. One day, your uncle suddenly realized that if you remained in the countryside, your future might be limited. He resolved to do everything he could to help you return to the city in pursuit of greater opportunity.
But again, fate did not smile upon you. Life in the city did not bring rebirth, but rather ushered in a new chapter of hardship. After eight years in the countryside, you had forgotten how to speak the city’s language. Poverty meant you wore the same clothes day after day. The scorn and mockery of your peers and neighbors left you ashamed and humiliated. You swallowed your tears, burying sorrow deep within, determined not to let your parents worry for you.
Still, fragile as you were, you longed for friendship, for love and protection. Through kindness and sincerity, you gradually carved out a small, warm corner of your own in the cold city. Just as you began to taste the sweetness of belonging and feel the joy of growing up, fate once again turned its hand—your family had to move once more.
Your friends were scattered, everything familiar vanished, and you found yourself once again cast into the abyss of loneliness…
3. Virgin in Love
Because of Mao Zedong’s political campaigns, a generation of urban youth was swept away by the tide of the Cultural Revolution. The call to “go up to the mountains and down to the countryside” forced countless young people into rural exile—and you, too, were among the unfortunate. In 1975, you were sent down to Chongming Farm, and with it began yet another chapter of hardship.
Your health had always been fragile, ill-suited for the heavy physical labor demanded by the farm. Under the scorching sun, you collapsed more than once in the fields. It was only through the compassion of close friends that you were reassigned to an accounting post—escaping, at least temporarily, the torment of backbreaking toil.
You had once held high hopes and dreams, but fate became a narrow corridor lined with obstacles. Life at the farm was bleak and monotonous; time seemed to stand still in the heavy, airless silence. China’s unique political system enabled some officials to act with unchecked impunity. In your shared dormitory, some young women, desperate to return to the city, sold their bodies without shame—sometimes right in front of you—as if the quiet girl in the corner did not exist at all. Isolation, shame, confusion, and helplessness clung to you like invisible shackles, leaving you struggling in the mire.
Yet, even in that harsh and barren place, your first love quietly blossomed. With your delicate beauty, modest smile, and a sweet voice tinged with your rural upbringing, you touched the hearts of those around you. But in such a broken world, you never dared to hope for the fruit of love. You were like a shy mimosa plant in a thunderstorm—burying yourself beneath dust and thorns, just to survive. You taught yourself to suppress every flicker of emotion, never daring to acknowledge anyone’s affection. You were the Cinderella of your own story, your light dimmed by the ashes of history, forever waiting in silence at the edge of the crowd.
At long last, the “unprecedented” Cultural Revolution came to an end. After six long years of hardship and humiliation, you joined the flood of returning urban youths and made your way back to the city you had longed for. But the Shanghai you returned to was no longer the place you remembered. The city had changed—once ablaze with political fervor, it had now fallen under the sway of money worship. The air was thick with greed and indifference.
Temptation and material desire began to erode the very foundations of your family. Your parents—and in particular your cold, self-serving older brother—began to see your beauty not as a gift, but as currency. They plotted behind your back, treating your hand in marriage as a bargaining chip to obtain the wealth they craved. They ignored your feelings and dismissed the bonds of blood, pushing you toward the precipice of a transactional fate.
But you did not surrender—to fear, to coercion, or to the hollow glitter of gold. Because in your heart, you held on to a single truth: that somewhere in this world, there lived a man who was truly your own—your white horse prince.
4. Falling in Love
Your quiet perseverance ultimately preserved your last shred of dignity. And it was at that very moment that the paths of our lives quietly converged.
That year, I had just emerged from one of the darkest valleys of my own life. Fate, in its usual irony, had cast my world into a heavy shadow. And then, in the midst of all that murkiness, you appeared—like a gentle spring flowing into the depths of my weary heart.
When we first met, you were as you always had been—calm, gentle, composed. There was a hint of shyness in your smile, but beneath it, I could sense a quiet strength, a stubborn resilience that stirred something deep within me. Your eyes didn’t blaze with fire, but they were deep and steady, like a moon hanging silently in the night sky—unnoticed, perhaps, but unwavering in its watchfulness.
What moved me was not your outer beauty, but the unspoken strength you carried—the strength to endure, to remain kind in a world that had given you little kindness in return. You were not someone of many words, yet you never shied away from meeting someone’s gaze. You never complained about fate, and you never surrendered to it. You were like a blade of grass standing tall in the wind—slender, perhaps, but never broken. You reminded me of the twilight sky—quiet and unassuming, yet always offering a sense of peace and steadiness.
When I finally confessed my feelings to you, you didn’t respond right away. Instead, you looked down and asked softly, “Aren’t you afraid? I… I’m not the kind of woman you imagine. I’m… not worthy.” I looked at you and gently took your hand:
“I don’t want you to become someone else. I don’t want you to change for me. I only want you to believe that after all fate has taken from us—after all the pain it has hurled our way—it has finally given us something too: a harbor where we can both find refuge.”
And at last, you cried. It was the first time in many years that your tears came not from despair, but from release.
In that moment, within the tender shelter of each other’s wounds, we found healing.
From then on, you no longer had to face the world alone. And I was no longer a lonely traveler walking through life by myself.
5. Emigration
At last, God granted us a chance to be reborn. And for that opportunity, we fought with unwavering determination for eight long years. Though burdened with debts both domestic and foreign, and carrying the responsibility of caring for your aging uncle—whose life savings had already been exhausted—we still faced the challenge with open hearts. Not for wealth or glory, but simply for a fair chance to stand upright and confront destiny with dignity. More than anything, we longed to give our beloved daughter a sky under which she could spread her wings and soar freely.
Our dream of emigrating took us on a winding journey through Canada, the United States, and Hong Kong—only to return again to Canada. Countless people asserted that it was nearly impossible for us to realize our immigration hopes. But my stubbornness—what many called a fool’s persistence—eventually turned illusion into reality. In October 1987, we finally said goodbye to that weather-beaten, hardship-stricken land of yellow soil, and with hearts brimming with hope and entrepreneurial zeal, we stepped into this new world—Canada—a country celebrated by many as a paradise on earth, greeted immediately by its thick, falling snow.
Back in China, we already had some idea of the West—not only of its opportunities and freedoms but also of the hidden dangers and moral pitfalls that lay beneath. Still, everyone said that among all Western nations, Canada was one of the very few we could truly depend on. Besides, we had a blood relative here—someone we believed would help us start this new life.
But it was precisely this person, whom we regarded as a father, who took advantage of our vulnerability and naiveté. Without a trace of pity, he pushed us into a pit of despair. In those moments, we cried out to the heavens: What kind of world is this? How could the human heart be so cold? How could family—those bound by blood—turn so ruthlessly against their own?
In the first two years of our life in Canada, we earned barely enough to survive. We spoke no English, and every day was a struggle. But drawing strength from the values of thrift and resilience instilled by our Chinese heritage, we gradually repaid all our debts and even managed to save a little. Eventually, I landed a high-paying and stable job. Though I had no time for rest, rarely saw you or our daughter, and often left home before dawn and returned after dark, I felt pride in being able to rebuild our family and give you both a sense of warmth and security—even in this foreign land.
Thanks to my many years of culinary experience and the reputation I had built, some fellow Chinese immigrants invited me to join them in opening a restaurant. We shared the same skin color and similar backgrounds, so I naively believed we would work in good faith and support each other. I was too innocent. In their eyes, I was nothing more than a temporary tool—something to be used and discarded when no longer needed.
I gave up my high-paying job and poured my heart and soul into helping them build a Sichuan restaurant from the ground up. From bare walls to bustling tables, I helped shape a business that attracted middle-class clientele and thrived. But once they had crossed the proverbial river, I—the bridge that carried them—was no longer of use. In the face of profit, they abandoned their promises. We lost nearly half of our hard-earned savings.
It was a brutal blow—one that left me speechless, disoriented, and trapped in despair.
But it was you—your quiet tenderness, your wordless patience—who slowly helped mend my shattered soul. With every small act of care, every moment of silent presence, you helped me rediscover the strength to face life again.
6. Starting a Business
Anger, injustice, and a stubborn refusal to accept defeat pushed me to ignore the advice of friends and hastily take over a failing restaurant in a remote and unpopular location—one that had a long history of poor management and frequent ownership changes. I didn’t do it for pride or profit, only for a chance to rise again from the ashes.
Lacking funds, I couldn’t afford any advertising, had no budget to renovate, and didn’t host a grand opening to draw in guests. All I had to rely on were my well-honed culinary skills, my genuine sincerity, and the warm, home-like service we provided from the heart.
By the grace of heaven, it was this very restaurant—one that had changed hands nearly every six months—that became the unlikely soil in which hope took root again. From days when barely a soul walked through the door, to the gradual return of customers, and eventually to scenes where people lined up in the freezing snow just for a taste of “home”—our sweat and toil were finally rewarded in full.
With business thriving, we were able to hire more staff. Even our little princess joined in, cheerfully helping serve tea and greet guests. In those moments, our hearts brimmed with gratitude—grateful that fate had finally smiled upon this migrant family, who had struggled too long on the margins of life.
Those were days of harvest and quiet joy. Our only regret was that we had so little time left to devote to our daughter’s growth. We missed much of her childhood, and that guilt remains lodged deep in my heart to this day.
Yet amid that faint glow of prosperity, we began to dream again of building a true home—a cozy, loving haven of our own. We cherished the brief time we had together, just two half-days off each week, to enjoy even the smallest domestic rituals. Even if fleeting, those moments were precious. Our daughter finally had space to express the love and longing she carried for her parents. We thought—naïvely—that perhaps our suffering was over, and the future was beginning to open its arms.
But then, the tide of economic reform sweeping across mainland China pulled us once more into a storm.
A slowing economy, coupled with the sudden passing of your father, forced us to give up the small restaurant we had worked so hard to build. Though we hadn’t yet decided on our next step in life, the pull of blood ties left no room for hesitation. We poured out all our savings to help our relatives in China lift themselves out of poverty and seize the so-called wave of prosperity.
We didn’t upgrade our car. We didn’t buy a house. Every cent we had was invested into their entrepreneurial dreams. But the promised economic spring never came. The craze for starting businesses led my normally prudent older sister to forget her limits—and forget our trust. In the end, we lost everything.
We had hoped that a modest venture trading silk between China and Canada might offer a new lifeline. But reality retreated with each step. China was just entering its early market economy phase, and the lack of business ethics was staggering. Materialism ran rampant; people were consumed by greed, with no regard for integrity.
When major losses hit our Canadian clients, I was forced to confront my own relatives to protect our reputation. We argued bitterly, and eventually, our relationships broke beyond repair.
The silk industry in China—once filled with potential—withered under manipulation and cutthroat competition. We became just another casualty of the chaos. A mountain of expired or substandard inventory sat useless, a dead weight that further crushed us.
In a final attempt to recover our losses, I traveled alone to the United States, once again embarking on the uncertain journey of searching for opportunity…
7. The Omen
Harsh reality left me disoriented. Another crushing blow dragged me once again into the abyss of despair. I sat alone atop a mountain peak, looking up and questioning the heavens: Why is this world so treacherous? But the sky remained silent. I turned to God and asked: Why is mankind so heartless? But God gave no reply. Finally, I pleaded with the god of fate: Why is there no mercy? Why not offer just a sliver of hope to preserve the warmth of our little family? Yet the only response I received was the echoing roar of the forest and the thunder rolling in the distance before the storm.
You couldn’t bear to watch my spirit break, so once again, with your frail but resolute strength, you wrapped your warmth around my frozen heart. With the simplest and most sincere of words, you breathed courage back into me. I pulled myself together and returned to hard work, hoping my perseverance might once again move the heart of fortune and bring us a turning point.
Though I could not be by your side often, I believed that if I could accumulate enough wealth, it would at least give you a life of peace and dignity. But once again, I was wrong—completely, painfully wrong…
The separation was agonizing. Letters could not contain the depth of our longing, and phone calls could never bridge the emotional distance between Florida and Montreal. Neither could they relieve the sorrow and yearning in our hearts. I had tried many times to persuade you to come to the U.S. and restart by selling the silk inventory, but you couldn’t bear to see me risk more losses. You insisted on staying in Montreal, selling the stock piece by piece to get by, all while tirelessly seeking chef job openings on my behalf. You pleaded with me to return, to start anew.
Between wealth and career or home and love, I ultimately chose the latter. I gave up the chance to reclaim my position at the hotel group, gave up the possibility of rebuilding my enterprise in the States, and returned to Montreal to pick up my culinary craft again—only for the wish that “though far apart, we may still gaze at the same moon.” But alas, perhaps it was already too late…
When you heard I was returning, you sprang into action—making inquiries about jobs suitable for me, searching across the city for a warm, affordable place we could call home. You quietly arranged everything: a trip to the Mont St. Bruno nature reserve, an outing to Parc Safari, and a short vacation to the capital city, Ottawa. These turned out to be the last moments the three of us would ever share as a family.
I never imagined our reunion would be so brief, so rushed. You, who had never shown much religious inclination, suddenly suggested frequent temple visits and incense offerings. You repeatedly urged me to make time to see a lay monk known for his insight into fate and fortune. I, foolishly dull, dismissed the monk’s warnings as superstition. Even just a few days before the tragedy, I failed to notice how withdrawn and melancholy you had become…
That night, you waited up for me, unusual for someone who normally retired early. I returned home late and exhausted, failing to sense your turmoil. I offered a casual word of concern before heading to bed. You stared at me in silence for a long moment, then softly murmured, “It seems… it no longer matters whether I’m here in this family or not…”
I failed to recognize this as a prelude to farewell. I gently brushed it off, telling you not to overthink things, and drifted into sleep—unaware of what was coming.
Two days before the incident, you took our daughter to a photo booth at the mall and had your portrait taken together. That evening, when I returned and saw the image on the screen, I was puzzled. A vague, ominous feeling crept over me, yet I couldn’t decipher what it meant. I rolled up the printout and urged you to discard it and retake the photo later. I had no idea it would become your final photograph with our daughter… and that the ordinary words we had exchanged in recent days would turn out to be the last loving whispers before your eternal goodbye.
8. The Tragedy
In the early hours of November 30th, a sudden, heavy snowfall blanketed Montreal in a veil of icy silence. Though the noonday sun lent a crystalline shimmer to the snow-covered city, it could not soften the bitter chill of winter's early arrival. Instead, the howling wind only deepened the bleakness. Just as I was preparing to leave for work, it occurred to me that you needed to go out as well. I offered to drive you, but you gently refused again and again. I relented… never imagining that disaster was already quietly approaching — death, silent and merciless, was closing in.
When our daughter called in a panic, her voice trembling with fear, I felt the world collapse around me. I rushed to the hospital with my heart in flames, only to find you unconscious, unresponsive — already slipping away from us. You hadn’t even had time to say goodbye.
The doctors were inept, their hands clumsy, and their decisions worse. A full seven hours of delay cost you the critical window for treatment. Not even surgery could bring you back. I had seen this before — my father had died in Montreal’s Jewish hospital, treated like a guinea pig in some inhumane experiment. I dared not let history repeat itself without a fight.
For days and nights, I kept vigil by your bedside, refusing sleep, refusing despair. I called everyone I could, searched everywhere for possible cures, confronted the hospital repeatedly to demand they honor their promises — that they would do everything in their power to save you. But all those promises… were illusions. Lies.
Just hours after they claimed to be making every effort, the same doctors signed — in secret — a document of death: a DNR, a "painless death" order that sealed your fate. When I realized your blood pressure was dropping and your body growing cold, I pleaded with them — I begged for your life. But I was met only with cold eyes and hollow excuses. Then came the thunderclap: “Article 99.” Just two words — and my soul shattered.
They had, without my knowledge, and in violation of their word, quietly chosen to abandon your treatment.
My blood boiled. My grief erupted into rage. My father’s wrongful death had never been vindicated — and now, the same nightmare had claimed you. And this is what they call paradise? This is the humanitarian West? Where is the human dignity they claim to uphold? Is it only because of our skin, our language, our foreignness, that we are treated as second-class citizens — lives to be discarded without remorse?
Even when I fought back with everything I had, when they claimed to resume treatment — it was all a performance. A cruel hoax. I, the fool, believed them. I waited by your side, hoping against hope for a miracle — for your eyes to flutter open, for your voice to call my name. But you… you never came back.
The careless hands of those doctors not only stripped you of your last chance at life, not only trampled your dignity as a human being — they took from you your most basic right to exist.
I prayed to God for mercy, clutching your gradually cooling hand, my tears soaking the sheets. Guilt surged through me in endless waves. I whispered over and over, begging for your forgiveness, for being unable to save you. I gently stroked the hand that had once helped me build our home — now coarse and lifeless — and softly hummed that little tune we used to sing together, hoping the god of love would hear and bring you back through some miracle.
I knelt before you, raising my eyes to the vast heavens, praying once again to the divine: Take my life, if it will bring her a second chance. Because our daughter — she cannot grow up without a mother. And you — you deserved a better world, a warm and gentle world. Not one filled only with pain, injustice, and tragedy.
9. Farewell Forever
Suddenly, I saw our daughter clutching the pale yellow teddy bear left behind when her father passed, crying as she ran into your hospital room. I couldn’t stop her—I could only watch helplessly. In that moment, I knew everything was irretrievably lost. In my despair, the world around me drained of all color, reduced to black and white alone. I cannot imagine how I will bear the heavy burden of raising our daughter, still not yet twelve, alone; how I will keep the promises I made to you both.
Looking into our daughter’s tear-streaked, swollen eyes, my heart was pierced like a blade. Pity, sorrow, and helplessness surged together. I repeatedly asked myself: why did I only awaken to the truth after disaster struck? How could I have been so blind? I once believed that wealth and money could compensate for all you had lost, could give you a life you never dared to dream of — yet I neglected what you truly needed: care, understanding, tenderness, and compassion. You were so sensitive and fragile, yet I never truly understood the cries deep within your soul. Standing before you now, I realize how powerless and how much of a failure I have been…
Today, with your precious life, you have awakened me and finally revealed to me the meaning of life. Eight days and nights of vigil have become our eternal farewell. I failed in my duties as a husband, and even at your final hour, I could not confess my mistakes or pour out my repentance. Your passing will forever remain my deepest regret.
Your heart was so vast. You never asked for a single cent when helping others, never sought reward or thanks. You even took in strangers to live with us for long periods without complaint or resentment. You bore so much pain and pressure for this family — for me, for our daughter — giving all you had without asking fate for even a trace of mercy. You were like an angel sent by God to save this lost, wandering soul of mine.
In this unbearable grief, I suddenly awaken from the haze. Though you have left this world, your kindness and purity, your gentle voice and radiant smile, and your graceful presence are forever engraved in my heart, never to fade.
Rest in peace, my beloved wife. You have walked the short and rugged path of your life, but I am grateful to have witnessed the moment your soul returned to heaven.
Farewell, my soulmate. The departed cannot return, but the living must be strong and carry on. I will open my heart and grit my teeth—no matter how harsh life becomes, I will keep my promise: with all my strength, I will raise our beloved daughter to grow healthy and wise, to think deeply, to receive a good education, and to have a bright future that belongs to her alone.
Rest in peace, my dearest wife. Only now do I fully understand how deep and enduring my love for you is — how fierce and unwavering. I will pray for you day and night, begging God to grant you perfect grace, so you may dwell in heaven’s palace in peace, freedom, and eternal happiness.
I will continue to do good and help the weak, seeking God’s and your forgiveness, and fight for justice in this world—for you, for me, and for all who suffer injustice. When that time comes, the stars above will shine even brighter, the full moon will glow more perfectly, and the sun will radiate with even greater brilliance.
May universal love embrace every social class, and may happiness forever dwell among mankind.
Ms. Ren Cuiqin tragically passed away on November 30, 1995, while volunteering for the YWCA Downtown Montreal charity. She departed this life on December 8, 1995, at 3:30 AM at the Puji Hospital in Montreal, Quebec, Canada, at the age of thirty-nine.
10. Afterword
Counting carefully, today should have been the 11th anniversary of my late wife’s passing. Farewell Forever is finally completed, yet the lawsuit I filed in 1998 at the Quebec court seeking justice for her has sunk into oblivion. I once believed that this case—stemming from the doctors and hospital trampling upon a patient’s basic right to life, including medical negligence and delay—would strongly favor our side. Yet, due to my lawyer’s overconfidence and negligence at the filing stage, the case never even came to court on its merits and was cruelly dismissed. To this day, I continue to fight for my wife’s case, negotiating with federal courts in hopes of reopening it.
From when I immigrated in 1987 until my wife’s tragic incident in 1995, I, like the vast majority of Chinese immigrants, lived by a principle of endurance and avoidance, hoping to keep peace by “bearing and forbearance.” Although I felt the sting of discrimination from the mainstream society, it did not deeply affect me then. But when calamity struck and my family was torn apart, I suffered the bitter fruits of bureaucracy and discrimination, forcing me to question the traditional Chinese approach of “enduring” everything. But as a powerless immigrant at the bottom of society, what else could I do?
All this happened in Quebec, a province extremely sensitive to language and culture, and I did not speak French. As one netizen said, “In Quebec, if you don’t speak French, hoping to seek justice from the government in English is a pipe dream.” This is the harsh truth. Moreover, I am a yellow-skinned Asian speaking broken English. For ten years, no matter how much I fought—from the municipal to provincial to federal levels, from newspapers to radio stations, then to television—I was blocked at every turn. The only exception was a brave Montreal English weekly HOURS in 1997, which dared to publish my story of injustice.
Discrimination and injustice are everywhere—not only from the mainstream society but also within ethnic minority communities themselves. This is why, soon after arriving in Canada, despite my language barriers, I set a principle to avoid working or doing business in Chinatown. One reason was that in 1987 Montreal, very few mainland immigrants existed, and without Cantonese, it was almost impossible to get around Chinatown, where one faced cold stares frequently. Another reason was that I did not want to trap myself in a narrow social circle. Settling for that would mean no real difference from staying in China.
Back then, Chinatown was fiercely competitive. Most overseas Chinese businesses fell into two categories: restaurants and grocery stores. Even outside Chinatown, it was common that when one restaurant succeeded, a string of copycats would soon pop up nearby, hoping to grab a share of the scraps. The result was vicious price wars that drained capital and forced many restaurants to close, hurting all parties involved. This was evident in the lobster wars of the 1990s in Toronto and Montreal Chinatowns.
Why hang yourself on one tree when you can open a new path? That was another reason I avoided Chinatown. So I rarely had Chinese customers and seldom mingled with the Chinese community. But life’s changes brought me back to the Chinese social circle, allowing me to experience again its complex human relations.
In 1991, the sudden death of my father due to negligent drug withdrawal by doctors at the Montreal Jewish Hospital deeply traumatized me. I felt conflicted, realizing the doctors’ grave negligence but also that my father was in the late stages of lung cancer with little hope of survival. Most of my customers came from that hospital, and my small restaurant’s survival depended on them, so I was reluctant to sue. But worse was yet to come with my wife...
The doctors at Montreal’s Puji Hospital ignored my requests and broke their promises made in front of me and my relatives—they secretly euthanized my wife without my knowledge. When I learned this, it was like a thunderclap, making me question if I truly lived in the so-called “heaven on earth.” I reached the limits of endurance but had never used a lawyer before and didn’t know where to turn. That was how ENZA MARTUCCILLI entered my life—only to become a persistent disaster.
If the Montreal Chinese Community Center had helped me find a lawyer for my sole request, if the Canadian judicial bureaucracy had not allowed an incompetent, fraud-prone impostor lawyer like ENZA MARTUCCILLI to serve at the Legal Aid department of the Montreal Christian Women’s Youth Association, my life and hers might never have crossed. Fraudsters easily prey on psychological weaknesses, and ENZA MARTUCCILLI was no exception.
Imagine facing a poor lawyer who claims to be terminally ill with breast cancer and often can’t afford medication but insists on helping the weak. What else could I do but feel guilt, sympathy, and pity? My lack of legal knowledge and understanding of the Canadian system, combined with the immense pain of losing my wife, made me fall into her trap and unable to escape. Details, including why I once helped despicable people like He Qingrui, will be revealed in future articles as warnings.
Among the mainstream society, organizations like PROJECT GENESIS, ACTION AUTONOMIE, HEAD & HANDS LEGAL CLINIC, and the QUEBEC OMBUDSMAN were initially skeptical—thinking my claims were like fantasy without seeing evidence or court documents. It’s hard for those living comfortably in mainstream society to believe such injustice could happen in a law-abiding society, yet all this was true.
Only after my social worker confirmed and witnessed my evidence and court documents did some agencies agree to support me and urge relevant government departments to address the case properly. After many failed attempts at coordination, in 2002, Quebec Ombudsman officials France Hudon and Ms. Zhao Xiumei contacted the Montreal Chinese Community Center to seek help with my case, encouraging me to return to the Chinese community for support. That is how the Center’s letter of support came about.
Regrettably, beyond one letter of support, the Center offered no real help. Even at a scheduled Legal Aid arbitration hearing, their lawyer failed to attend, causing the arbitrators to wait in vain and my appeal to be rejected. At the same time, a kind friend advised me to post my misfortune on the Montreal Chinese Forum for public discussion. The online response and feedback from those with similar experiences inspired me to hope for a group that genuinely represents the Chinese community.
Sunday forums thrived for a time. Though disputes, such as with certain cultural festival organizers, were disheartening, the forum allowed me to meet friends with shared sympathy and consensus. Witnessing the negative effects of “everyone only sweeping in front of their own door” attitudes in Chinese groups motivated me to do what I could to help others. Writing this, I recall Mr. Zhang Jinhui of a real estate company. The Chinese Mutual Aid Alliance ended without success, and my misfortunes on the internet were met with criticism and distortion by some. Where to go from here?
Fate played a cruel joke on me, letting me personally experience the flaws and failures of Canadian and Quebec medical, administrative, and judicial systems. These continuous hardships made my life hellish but led me to repeatedly reflect on life’s values. Having survived, I realized that merely complaining about ethnic shortcomings is insufficient. To change our community’s deep-rooted “everyone for themselves” mentality, one must start with oneself. This is why, despite the failure of the Mutual Aid Alliance, I persist in doing what little I can for the Chinese.
I am no scholar nor cultured person. What I write and discuss cannot match the elegance of literary or academic elites. Yet as an ordinary minority citizen, my grievances arise from the bottom of society against injustice. My efforts aim not only to voice grievances for my family’s misfortune but also to awaken the mainstream society and government institutions, so such tragedies don’t recur and harm the innocent.
Although much of my misfortune stems from bureaucracy and discrimination, my idealism, emotional dealings, and black-and-white worldview are also causes of my repeated misfortunes. Where will I go from here? I will continue writing. Inspired by helping others and requests for aid online, I plan not only to share my experiences as lessons but also to discuss social phenomena—especially how consumerism-driven values create family and marital crises, causing suspicion and estrangement among spouses and relatives. Future writings will inevitably touch on these themes.
I once thought that though I never reached material wealth, I was rich in love. But my second wife abandoned me after eight years of marriage and eloped with one of our daughters, leaving me with nothing. From the Literary City website’s multiple top listings of my article On Husbands Beating Wives and the Aftermath, to Canada No Worries featuring Farewell Forever as a selection; from countless help requests, calls, and the Montreal Chinese Forum’s Useful Telephone Numbers for Quebec - Chinese list, to the recently established blog Cherish Life, Mutual Help and Love, the readership is high. After Farewell Forever, I will take time to write about my marriage and relationships for the benefit of future readers.
God is just. Though money eludes me and love and marriage have brought me suffering, He has blessed me with a wealth of thought I never had before. Thanks to love’s grace, despite multiple blows, I still face reality, bravely crossing life’s perilous rapids and climbing cliffs without giving up. I believe my late wife would be comforted by this.
Of course, my writing is like a child learning to walk—embarrassing before literary masters—and my life is a failure in many ways. Is it necessary? After much thought, I believe it is. In this commercialized society, leaving material wealth for descendants is important. But more important is that they learn from their ancestors’ life paths, think thrice before acting—that is true wealth.
The road ahead is long, and much remains to be done. How to reclaim life’s value and not waste the rest of one’s days? Though still exploring life’s meaning, I no longer wander lost. No longer a slave to money, I have transcended and rediscovered the meaning of living. Though I still must struggle to survive, I no longer bow before mere survival needs. If I can calmly face life’s trivialities, what more could I ask for? As for my views clashing with today’s money-first society, I care not.
I wish for true love to find lasting unions, for every family to enjoy parental love and filial piety; may universal love embrace all classes, and may happiness and kindness dwell among mankind forever.
Time flies like an arrow. Your gentle voice and radiant smile, your warmth and grace, still linger vividly in my memory. And yet, in the blink of an eye, the relentless passage of time has allowed the sun and moon to cycle through ten long years...
Was it the will of Heaven—or the cruel mockery of fate?
Though ten years of torment have brought me back from the brink of death and allowed me to raise our beloved daughter into adulthood, life has not turned out as we had hoped. She is no longer the same precious daughter we once knew, and I can no longer call myself a devoted or competent father with pride.
I ask myself time and again where I went wrong, but I have no clear answers. All I know is that I have failed to live up to the sacred trust you placed in me. On the occasion of this solemn tenth anniversary of your passing, I once again beg your forgiveness and pray that your spirit may help mend the widening rift between father and daughter.
I do not know if my plea aligns with Heaven’s will. But beyond this prayer, I am at a loss. I have no other means left.
(In solemn remembrance of your 30th heavenly birthday.)
- Remembrance
You came into this world in haste—and left just as swiftly. With sorrow in your heart and love unspoken, you departed without a word, without a farewell. In your final moments, you summoned all your strength to open your eyes one last time, gazing with deep affection at those dearest to you—especially our kind, beautiful little princess—reluctantly holding her tender little hand. That instant marked our eternal farewell. Whether you were ready or not, before you could speak your heart, fate had already cruelly stolen your final chance…
You arrived in this world full of hope and longing, carrying a heart full of kindness and gentleness, believing this earthly life to be filled with love and beauty. From Heaven’s gates, you must have looked down countless times, mesmerized by this enchanting realm: Rainbows arching across sapphire skies, sunlight warm and golden, a world teeming with vibrant life. In the woodlands, all creatures played in peace, while people lived in harmony. In the lush gardens of Eden, among the songs of birds and the bloom of flowers, lovers whispered sweet words and leaned close like a pair of affectionate lovebirds, sharing their hearts and dreams…
That was the paradise you longed for. You pleaded with God to let you descend into this dreamlike world—for it was the home of your ideals. But perhaps through a twist of fate, the gods misplaced you, casting you instead into a world entirely foreign to your soul: The sky was grey, the earth barren, and everywhere you turned there was oppression, deceit, cruelty, and fear. The grotesque, distorted reality left you bewildered and afraid.
Suddenly, into your sight stumbled a frightened little lamb—desperate, panting, fleeing from the jaws of a ravenous wolf. Exhausted beyond measure, it was still relentlessly pursued. With nowhere to hide, its trembling body cried out in terror, too weak to even stand, yet its eyes still clung to the hope of survival. In despair, it looked around, searching for even the faintest chance of life...
The scene pierced your heart. You could not bear to watch a fragile life be torn apart. Forgetting your own weakness, caring nothing for your own safety—you, a delicate young woman—rushed forward without hesitation, swept that small life into your arms, and fled that field of death with all your strength…
You fled into a wilderness cloaked in endless darkness. There was no one—no warmth, no food, no fragrance of flowers, nor birdsong—only howling winds and merciless thunder and lightning. The shrill cries from the distant mountains left you lost and afraid. There was no place to rest your weary body. And yet, you gently cradled that only companion in your arms, trying to soothe its trembling with your warmth. Rain lashed endlessly from the heavens. Though soaked to the bone, you shielded it with your own clothes from the storm.
Falling to your knees, you pleaded with God to let you return to that paradise you had once dreamed of—not this earthly purgatory. But it was too late. You struggled to understand this world. You tried to exchange your compassion and kindness for even the smallest place to stand, willing to give everything. But despite all you offered, you were never truly accepted or understood. You searched tirelessly for the way back to your dreamworld, yet this world was a maze—no matter how you struggled, you could not escape the cruel mockery and torment of fate.
You were so gentle, and so good. You could never understand why, in a world so vast, there was no place for you to simply be. Your pure, compassionate soul could not comprehend the injustice and cruelty that reigned here. And so, carrying sorrow beyond words, bearing pain and grief too heavy to speak, and with deep worry and reluctant longing—you broke free from the chains of this demonic world, and returned to the paradise that should have always been your home…
- Childhood
At the tender age of four, your family could no longer sustain itself on your father’s meager wages alone. Fortunately, your uncle and aunt extended a loving hand and brought you into their rural home, raising you as their own.
Each night, as twilight settled over the countryside, your aunt—though weary from a full day’s labor—would never let her little princess go to bed disappointed. With soft whispers, she would weave for you enchanting fairy tales, opening a door to a world of wonder. You, with a sweet smile on your face, nestled into her warm arms, would drift peacefully into dreams…
Time passed gently. Though life in the countryside was simple, it was also filled with warmth, thanks to your aunt’s boundless love. Whenever your uncle took you visiting from village to village, your aunt would stuff your tiny pockets full of treats, worried you might go hungry. The scent of those snacks, mingled with sunlight over the fields and laughter from your playmates, wrapped your childhood in a tender embrace of rustic affection.
You loved the countryside—the free air, the unpretentious life, the sincerity of people, so different from the guarded hearts of the cities. Village children adored you, treating you like a precious gem. Together you raced along pond banks and field paths, weaving through forest trails with joyous abandon. In your heart, you dreamed a thousand times that one day, a prince on a white horse would kneel before you and vow eternal love…
The seasons turned, stars wheeled through the skies, and you blossomed into a graceful young woman. One day, your uncle suddenly realized that if you remained in the countryside, your future might be limited. He resolved to do everything he could to help you return to the city in pursuit of greater opportunity.
But again, fate did not smile upon you. Life in the city did not bring rebirth, but rather ushered in a new chapter of hardship. After eight years in the countryside, you had forgotten how to speak the city’s language. Poverty meant you wore the same clothes day after day. The scorn and mockery of your peers and neighbors left you ashamed and humiliated. You swallowed your tears, burying sorrow deep within, determined not to let your parents worry for you.
Still, fragile as you were, you longed for friendship, for love and protection. Through kindness and sincerity, you gradually carved out a small, warm corner of your own in the cold city. Just as you began to taste the sweetness of belonging and feel the joy of growing up, fate once again turned its hand—your family had to move once more.
Your friends were scattered, everything familiar vanished, and you found yourself once again cast into the abyss of loneliness…
3. Virgin in Love
Because of Mao Zedong’s political campaigns, a generation of urban youth was swept away by the tide of the Cultural Revolution. The call to “go up to the mountains and down to the countryside” forced countless young people into rural exile—and you, too, were among the unfortunate. In 1975, you were sent down to Chongming Farm, and with it began yet another chapter of hardship.
Your health had always been fragile, ill-suited for the heavy physical labor demanded by the farm. Under the scorching sun, you collapsed more than once in the fields. It was only through the compassion of close friends that you were reassigned to an accounting post—escaping, at least temporarily, the torment of backbreaking toil.
You had once held high hopes and dreams, but fate became a narrow corridor lined with obstacles. Life at the farm was bleak and monotonous; time seemed to stand still in the heavy, airless silence. China’s unique political system enabled some officials to act with unchecked impunity. In your shared dormitory, some young women, desperate to return to the city, sold their bodies without shame—sometimes right in front of you—as if the quiet girl in the corner did not exist at all. Isolation, shame, confusion, and helplessness clung to you like invisible shackles, leaving you struggling in the mire.
Yet, even in that harsh and barren place, your first love quietly blossomed. With your delicate beauty, modest smile, and a sweet voice tinged with your rural upbringing, you touched the hearts of those around you. But in such a broken world, you never dared to hope for the fruit of love. You were like a shy mimosa plant in a thunderstorm—burying yourself beneath dust and thorns, just to survive. You taught yourself to suppress every flicker of emotion, never daring to acknowledge anyone’s affection. You were the Cinderella of your own story, your light dimmed by the ashes of history, forever waiting in silence at the edge of the crowd.
At long last, the “unprecedented” Cultural Revolution came to an end. After six long years of hardship and humiliation, you joined the flood of returning urban youths and made your way back to the city you had longed for. But the Shanghai you returned to was no longer the place you remembered. The city had changed—once ablaze with political fervor, it had now fallen under the sway of money worship. The air was thick with greed and indifference.
Temptation and material desire began to erode the very foundations of your family. Your parents—and in particular your cold, self-serving older brother—began to see your beauty not as a gift, but as currency. They plotted behind your back, treating your hand in marriage as a bargaining chip to obtain the wealth they craved. They ignored your feelings and dismissed the bonds of blood, pushing you toward the precipice of a transactional fate.
But you did not surrender—to fear, to coercion, or to the hollow glitter of gold. Because in your heart, you held on to a single truth: that somewhere in this world, there lived a man who was truly your own—your white horse prince.
4. Falling in Love
Your quiet perseverance ultimately preserved your last shred of dignity. And it was at that very moment that the paths of our lives quietly converged.
That year, I had just emerged from one of the darkest valleys of my own life. Fate, in its usual irony, had cast my world into a heavy shadow. And then, in the midst of all that murkiness, you appeared—like a gentle spring flowing into the depths of my weary heart.
When we first met, you were as you always had been—calm, gentle, composed. There was a hint of shyness in your smile, but beneath it, I could sense a quiet strength, a stubborn resilience that stirred something deep within me. Your eyes didn’t blaze with fire, but they were deep and steady, like a moon hanging silently in the night sky—unnoticed, perhaps, but unwavering in its watchfulness.
What moved me was not your outer beauty, but the unspoken strength you carried—the strength to endure, to remain kind in a world that had given you little kindness in return. You were not someone of many words, yet you never shied away from meeting someone’s gaze. You never complained about fate, and you never surrendered to it. You were like a blade of grass standing tall in the wind—slender, perhaps, but never broken. You reminded me of the twilight sky—quiet and unassuming, yet always offering a sense of peace and steadiness.
When I finally confessed my feelings to you, you didn’t respond right away. Instead, you looked down and asked softly, “Aren’t you afraid? I… I’m not the kind of woman you imagine. I’m… not worthy.” I looked at you and gently took your hand:
“I don’t want you to become someone else. I don’t want you to change for me. I only want you to believe that after all fate has taken from us—after all the pain it has hurled our way—it has finally given us something too: a harbor where we can both find refuge.”
And at last, you cried. It was the first time in many years that your tears came not from despair, but from release.
In that moment, within the tender shelter of each other’s wounds, we found healing.
From then on, you no longer had to face the world alone. And I was no longer a lonely traveler walking through life by myself.
5. Emigration
At last, God granted us a chance to be reborn. And for that opportunity, we fought with unwavering determination for eight long years. Though burdened with debts both domestic and foreign, and carrying the responsibility of caring for your aging uncle—whose life savings had already been exhausted—we still faced the challenge with open hearts. Not for wealth or glory, but simply for a fair chance to stand upright and confront destiny with dignity. More than anything, we longed to give our beloved daughter a sky under which she could spread her wings and soar freely.
Our dream of emigrating took us on a winding journey through Canada, the United States, and Hong Kong—only to return again to Canada. Countless people asserted that it was nearly impossible for us to realize our immigration hopes. But my stubbornness—what many called a fool’s persistence—eventually turned illusion into reality. In October 1987, we finally said goodbye to that weather-beaten, hardship-stricken land of yellow soil, and with hearts brimming with hope and entrepreneurial zeal, we stepped into this new world—Canada—a country celebrated by many as a paradise on earth, greeted immediately by its thick, falling snow.
Back in China, we already had some idea of the West—not only of its opportunities and freedoms but also of the hidden dangers and moral pitfalls that lay beneath. Still, everyone said that among all Western nations, Canada was one of the very few we could truly depend on. Besides, we had a blood relative here—someone we believed would help us start this new life.
But it was precisely this person, whom we regarded as a father, who took advantage of our vulnerability and naiveté. Without a trace of pity, he pushed us into a pit of despair. In those moments, we cried out to the heavens: What kind of world is this? How could the human heart be so cold? How could family—those bound by blood—turn so ruthlessly against their own?
In the first two years of our life in Canada, we earned barely enough to survive. We spoke no English, and every day was a struggle. But drawing strength from the values of thrift and resilience instilled by our Chinese heritage, we gradually repaid all our debts and even managed to save a little. Eventually, I landed a high-paying and stable job. Though I had no time for rest, rarely saw you or our daughter, and often left home before dawn and returned after dark, I felt pride in being able to rebuild our family and give you both a sense of warmth and security—even in this foreign land.
Thanks to my many years of culinary experience and the reputation I had built, some fellow Chinese immigrants invited me to join them in opening a restaurant. We shared the same skin color and similar backgrounds, so I naively believed we would work in good faith and support each other. I was too innocent. In their eyes, I was nothing more than a temporary tool—something to be used and discarded when no longer needed.
I gave up my high-paying job and poured my heart and soul into helping them build a Sichuan restaurant from the ground up. From bare walls to bustling tables, I helped shape a business that attracted middle-class clientele and thrived. But once they had crossed the proverbial river, I—the bridge that carried them—was no longer of use. In the face of profit, they abandoned their promises. We lost nearly half of our hard-earned savings.
It was a brutal blow—one that left me speechless, disoriented, and trapped in despair.
But it was you—your quiet tenderness, your wordless patience—who slowly helped mend my shattered soul. With every small act of care, every moment of silent presence, you helped me rediscover the strength to face life again.
6. Starting a Business
Anger, injustice, and a stubborn refusal to accept defeat pushed me to ignore the advice of friends and hastily take over a failing restaurant in a remote and unpopular location—one that had a long history of poor management and frequent ownership changes. I didn’t do it for pride or profit, only for a chance to rise again from the ashes.
Lacking funds, I couldn’t afford any advertising, had no budget to renovate, and didn’t host a grand opening to draw in guests. All I had to rely on were my well-honed culinary skills, my genuine sincerity, and the warm, home-like service we provided from the heart.
By the grace of heaven, it was this very restaurant—one that had changed hands nearly every six months—that became the unlikely soil in which hope took root again. From days when barely a soul walked through the door, to the gradual return of customers, and eventually to scenes where people lined up in the freezing snow just for a taste of “home”—our sweat and toil were finally rewarded in full.
With business thriving, we were able to hire more staff. Even our little princess joined in, cheerfully helping serve tea and greet guests. In those moments, our hearts brimmed with gratitude—grateful that fate had finally smiled upon this migrant family, who had struggled too long on the margins of life.
Those were days of harvest and quiet joy. Our only regret was that we had so little time left to devote to our daughter’s growth. We missed much of her childhood, and that guilt remains lodged deep in my heart to this day.
Yet amid that faint glow of prosperity, we began to dream again of building a true home—a cozy, loving haven of our own. We cherished the brief time we had together, just two half-days off each week, to enjoy even the smallest domestic rituals. Even if fleeting, those moments were precious. Our daughter finally had space to express the love and longing she carried for her parents. We thought—naïvely—that perhaps our suffering was over, and the future was beginning to open its arms.
But then, the tide of economic reform sweeping across mainland China pulled us once more into a storm.
A slowing economy, coupled with the sudden passing of your father, forced us to give up the small restaurant we had worked so hard to build. Though we hadn’t yet decided on our next step in life, the pull of blood ties left no room for hesitation. We poured out all our savings to help our relatives in China lift themselves out of poverty and seize the so-called wave of prosperity.
We didn’t upgrade our car. We didn’t buy a house. Every cent we had was invested into their entrepreneurial dreams. But the promised economic spring never came. The craze for starting businesses led my normally prudent older sister to forget her limits—and forget our trust. In the end, we lost everything.
We had hoped that a modest venture trading silk between China and Canada might offer a new lifeline. But reality retreated with each step. China was just entering its early market economy phase, and the lack of business ethics was staggering. Materialism ran rampant; people were consumed by greed, with no regard for integrity.
When major losses hit our Canadian clients, I was forced to confront my own relatives to protect our reputation. We argued bitterly, and eventually, our relationships broke beyond repair.
The silk industry in China—once filled with potential—withered under manipulation and cutthroat competition. We became just another casualty of the chaos. A mountain of expired or substandard inventory sat useless, a dead weight that further crushed us.
In a final attempt to recover our losses, I traveled alone to the United States, once again embarking on the uncertain journey of searching for opportunity…
7. The Omen
Harsh reality left me disoriented. Another crushing blow dragged me once again into the abyss of despair. I sat alone atop a mountain peak, looking up and questioning the heavens: Why is this world so treacherous? But the sky remained silent. I turned to God and asked: Why is mankind so heartless? But God gave no reply. Finally, I pleaded with the god of fate: Why is there no mercy? Why not offer just a sliver of hope to preserve the warmth of our little family? Yet the only response I received was the echoing roar of the forest and the thunder rolling in the distance before the storm.
You couldn’t bear to watch my spirit break, so once again, with your frail but resolute strength, you wrapped your warmth around my frozen heart. With the simplest and most sincere of words, you breathed courage back into me. I pulled myself together and returned to hard work, hoping my perseverance might once again move the heart of fortune and bring us a turning point.
Though I could not be by your side often, I believed that if I could accumulate enough wealth, it would at least give you a life of peace and dignity. But once again, I was wrong—completely, painfully wrong…
The separation was agonizing. Letters could not contain the depth of our longing, and phone calls could never bridge the emotional distance between Florida and Montreal. Neither could they relieve the sorrow and yearning in our hearts. I had tried many times to persuade you to come to the U.S. and restart by selling the silk inventory, but you couldn’t bear to see me risk more losses. You insisted on staying in Montreal, selling the stock piece by piece to get by, all while tirelessly seeking chef job openings on my behalf. You pleaded with me to return, to start anew.
Between wealth and career or home and love, I ultimately chose the latter. I gave up the chance to reclaim my position at the hotel group, gave up the possibility of rebuilding my enterprise in the States, and returned to Montreal to pick up my culinary craft again—only for the wish that “though far apart, we may still gaze at the same moon.” But alas, perhaps it was already too late…
When you heard I was returning, you sprang into action—making inquiries about jobs suitable for me, searching across the city for a warm, affordable place we could call home. You quietly arranged everything: a trip to the Mont St. Bruno nature reserve, an outing to Parc Safari, and a short vacation to the capital city, Ottawa. These turned out to be the last moments the three of us would ever share as a family.
I never imagined our reunion would be so brief, so rushed. You, who had never shown much religious inclination, suddenly suggested frequent temple visits and incense offerings. You repeatedly urged me to make time to see a lay monk known for his insight into fate and fortune. I, foolishly dull, dismissed the monk’s warnings as superstition. Even just a few days before the tragedy, I failed to notice how withdrawn and melancholy you had become…
That night, you waited up for me, unusual for someone who normally retired early. I returned home late and exhausted, failing to sense your turmoil. I offered a casual word of concern before heading to bed. You stared at me in silence for a long moment, then softly murmured, “It seems… it no longer matters whether I’m here in this family or not…”
I failed to recognize this as a prelude to farewell. I gently brushed it off, telling you not to overthink things, and drifted into sleep—unaware of what was coming.
Two days before the incident, you took our daughter to a photo booth at the mall and had your portrait taken together. That evening, when I returned and saw the image on the screen, I was puzzled. A vague, ominous feeling crept over me, yet I couldn’t decipher what it meant. I rolled up the printout and urged you to discard it and retake the photo later. I had no idea it would become your final photograph with our daughter… and that the ordinary words we had exchanged in recent days would turn out to be the last loving whispers before your eternal goodbye.
8. The Tragedy
In the early hours of November 30th, a sudden, heavy snowfall blanketed Montreal in a veil of icy silence. Though the noonday sun lent a crystalline shimmer to the snow-covered city, it could not soften the bitter chill of winter's early arrival. Instead, the howling wind only deepened the bleakness. Just as I was preparing to leave for work, it occurred to me that you needed to go out as well. I offered to drive you, but you gently refused again and again. I relented… never imagining that disaster was already quietly approaching — death, silent and merciless, was closing in.
When our daughter called in a panic, her voice trembling with fear, I felt the world collapse around me. I rushed to the hospital with my heart in flames, only to find you unconscious, unresponsive — already slipping away from us. You hadn’t even had time to say goodbye.
The doctors were inept, their hands clumsy, and their decisions worse. A full seven hours of delay cost you the critical window for treatment. Not even surgery could bring you back. I had seen this before — my father had died in Montreal’s Jewish hospital, treated like a guinea pig in some inhumane experiment. I dared not let history repeat itself without a fight.
For days and nights, I kept vigil by your bedside, refusing sleep, refusing despair. I called everyone I could, searched everywhere for possible cures, confronted the hospital repeatedly to demand they honor their promises — that they would do everything in their power to save you. But all those promises… were illusions. Lies.
Just hours after they claimed to be making every effort, the same doctors signed — in secret — a document of death: a DNR, a "painless death" order that sealed your fate. When I realized your blood pressure was dropping and your body growing cold, I pleaded with them — I begged for your life. But I was met only with cold eyes and hollow excuses. Then came the thunderclap: “Article 99.” Just two words — and my soul shattered.
They had, without my knowledge, and in violation of their word, quietly chosen to abandon your treatment.
My blood boiled. My grief erupted into rage. My father’s wrongful death had never been vindicated — and now, the same nightmare had claimed you. And this is what they call paradise? This is the humanitarian West? Where is the human dignity they claim to uphold? Is it only because of our skin, our language, our foreignness, that we are treated as second-class citizens — lives to be discarded without remorse?
Even when I fought back with everything I had, when they claimed to resume treatment — it was all a performance. A cruel hoax. I, the fool, believed them. I waited by your side, hoping against hope for a miracle — for your eyes to flutter open, for your voice to call my name. But you… you never came back.
The careless hands of those doctors not only stripped you of your last chance at life, not only trampled your dignity as a human being — they took from you your most basic right to exist.
I prayed to God for mercy, clutching your gradually cooling hand, my tears soaking the sheets. Guilt surged through me in endless waves. I whispered over and over, begging for your forgiveness, for being unable to save you. I gently stroked the hand that had once helped me build our home — now coarse and lifeless — and softly hummed that little tune we used to sing together, hoping the god of love would hear and bring you back through some miracle.
I knelt before you, raising my eyes to the vast heavens, praying once again to the divine: Take my life, if it will bring her a second chance. Because our daughter — she cannot grow up without a mother. And you — you deserved a better world, a warm and gentle world. Not one filled only with pain, injustice, and tragedy.
9. Farewell Forever
Suddenly, I saw our daughter clutching the pale yellow teddy bear left behind when her father passed, crying as she ran into your hospital room. I couldn’t stop her—I could only watch helplessly. In that moment, I knew everything was irretrievably lost. In my despair, the world around me drained of all color, reduced to black and white alone. I cannot imagine how I will bear the heavy burden of raising our daughter, still not yet twelve, alone; how I will keep the promises I made to you both.
Looking into our daughter’s tear-streaked, swollen eyes, my heart was pierced like a blade. Pity, sorrow, and helplessness surged together. I repeatedly asked myself: why did I only awaken to the truth after disaster struck? How could I have been so blind? I once believed that wealth and money could compensate for all you had lost, could give you a life you never dared to dream of — yet I neglected what you truly needed: care, understanding, tenderness, and compassion. You were so sensitive and fragile, yet I never truly understood the cries deep within your soul. Standing before you now, I realize how powerless and how much of a failure I have been…
Today, with your precious life, you have awakened me and finally revealed to me the meaning of life. Eight days and nights of vigil have become our eternal farewell. I failed in my duties as a husband, and even at your final hour, I could not confess my mistakes or pour out my repentance. Your passing will forever remain my deepest regret.
Your heart was so vast. You never asked for a single cent when helping others, never sought reward or thanks. You even took in strangers to live with us for long periods without complaint or resentment. You bore so much pain and pressure for this family — for me, for our daughter — giving all you had without asking fate for even a trace of mercy. You were like an angel sent by God to save this lost, wandering soul of mine.
In this unbearable grief, I suddenly awaken from the haze. Though you have left this world, your kindness and purity, your gentle voice and radiant smile, and your graceful presence are forever engraved in my heart, never to fade.
Rest in peace, my beloved wife. You have walked the short and rugged path of your life, but I am grateful to have witnessed the moment your soul returned to heaven.
Farewell, my soulmate. The departed cannot return, but the living must be strong and carry on. I will open my heart and grit my teeth—no matter how harsh life becomes, I will keep my promise: with all my strength, I will raise our beloved daughter to grow healthy and wise, to think deeply, to receive a good education, and to have a bright future that belongs to her alone.
Rest in peace, my dearest wife. Only now do I fully understand how deep and enduring my love for you is — how fierce and unwavering. I will pray for you day and night, begging God to grant you perfect grace, so you may dwell in heaven’s palace in peace, freedom, and eternal happiness.
I will continue to do good and help the weak, seeking God’s and your forgiveness, and fight for justice in this world—for you, for me, and for all who suffer injustice. When that time comes, the stars above will shine even brighter, the full moon will glow more perfectly, and the sun will radiate with even greater brilliance.
May universal love embrace every social class, and may happiness forever dwell among mankind.
Ms. Ren Cuiqin tragically passed away on November 30, 1995, while volunteering for the YWCA Downtown Montreal charity. She departed this life on December 8, 1995, at 3:30 AM at the Puji Hospital in Montreal, Quebec, Canada, at the age of thirty-nine.
10. Afterword
Counting carefully, today should have been the 11th anniversary of my late wife’s passing. Farewell Forever is finally completed, yet the lawsuit I filed in 1998 at the Quebec court seeking justice for her has sunk into oblivion. I once believed that this case—stemming from the doctors and hospital trampling upon a patient’s basic right to life, including medical negligence and delay—would strongly favor our side. Yet, due to my lawyer’s overconfidence and negligence at the filing stage, the case never even came to court on its merits and was cruelly dismissed. To this day, I continue to fight for my wife’s case, negotiating with federal courts in hopes of reopening it.
From when I immigrated in 1987 until my wife’s tragic incident in 1995, I, like the vast majority of Chinese immigrants, lived by a principle of endurance and avoidance, hoping to keep peace by “bearing and forbearance.” Although I felt the sting of discrimination from the mainstream society, it did not deeply affect me then. But when calamity struck and my family was torn apart, I suffered the bitter fruits of bureaucracy and discrimination, forcing me to question the traditional Chinese approach of “enduring” everything. But as a powerless immigrant at the bottom of society, what else could I do?
All this happened in Quebec, a province extremely sensitive to language and culture, and I did not speak French. As one netizen said, “In Quebec, if you don’t speak French, hoping to seek justice from the government in English is a pipe dream.” This is the harsh truth. Moreover, I am a yellow-skinned Asian speaking broken English. For ten years, no matter how much I fought—from the municipal to provincial to federal levels, from newspapers to radio stations, then to television—I was blocked at every turn. The only exception was a brave Montreal English weekly HOURS in 1997, which dared to publish my story of injustice.
Discrimination and injustice are everywhere—not only from the mainstream society but also within ethnic minority communities themselves. This is why, soon after arriving in Canada, despite my language barriers, I set a principle to avoid working or doing business in Chinatown. One reason was that in 1987 Montreal, very few mainland immigrants existed, and without Cantonese, it was almost impossible to get around Chinatown, where one faced cold stares frequently. Another reason was that I did not want to trap myself in a narrow social circle. Settling for that would mean no real difference from staying in China.
Back then, Chinatown was fiercely competitive. Most overseas Chinese businesses fell into two categories: restaurants and grocery stores. Even outside Chinatown, it was common that when one restaurant succeeded, a string of copycats would soon pop up nearby, hoping to grab a share of the scraps. The result was vicious price wars that drained capital and forced many restaurants to close, hurting all parties involved. This was evident in the lobster wars of the 1990s in Toronto and Montreal Chinatowns.
Why hang yourself on one tree when you can open a new path? That was another reason I avoided Chinatown. So I rarely had Chinese customers and seldom mingled with the Chinese community. But life’s changes brought me back to the Chinese social circle, allowing me to experience again its complex human relations.
In 1991, the sudden death of my father due to negligent drug withdrawal by doctors at the Montreal Jewish Hospital deeply traumatized me. I felt conflicted, realizing the doctors’ grave negligence but also that my father was in the late stages of lung cancer with little hope of survival. Most of my customers came from that hospital, and my small restaurant’s survival depended on them, so I was reluctant to sue. But worse was yet to come with my wife...
The doctors at Montreal’s Puji Hospital ignored my requests and broke their promises made in front of me and my relatives—they secretly euthanized my wife without my knowledge. When I learned this, it was like a thunderclap, making me question if I truly lived in the so-called “heaven on earth.” I reached the limits of endurance but had never used a lawyer before and didn’t know where to turn. That was how ENZA MARTUCCILLI entered my life—only to become a persistent disaster.
If the Montreal Chinese Community Center had helped me find a lawyer for my sole request, if the Canadian judicial bureaucracy had not allowed an incompetent, fraud-prone impostor lawyer like ENZA MARTUCCILLI to serve at the Legal Aid department of the Montreal Christian Women’s Youth Association, my life and hers might never have crossed. Fraudsters easily prey on psychological weaknesses, and ENZA MARTUCCILLI was no exception.
Imagine facing a poor lawyer who claims to be terminally ill with breast cancer and often can’t afford medication but insists on helping the weak. What else could I do but feel guilt, sympathy, and pity? My lack of legal knowledge and understanding of the Canadian system, combined with the immense pain of losing my wife, made me fall into her trap and unable to escape. Details, including why I once helped despicable people like He Qingrui, will be revealed in future articles as warnings.
Among the mainstream society, organizations like PROJECT GENESIS, ACTION AUTONOMIE, HEAD & HANDS LEGAL CLINIC, and the QUEBEC OMBUDSMAN were initially skeptical—thinking my claims were like fantasy without seeing evidence or court documents. It’s hard for those living comfortably in mainstream society to believe such injustice could happen in a law-abiding society, yet all this was true.
Only after my social worker confirmed and witnessed my evidence and court documents did some agencies agree to support me and urge relevant government departments to address the case properly. After many failed attempts at coordination, in 2002, Quebec Ombudsman officials France Hudon and Ms. Zhao Xiumei contacted the Montreal Chinese Community Center to seek help with my case, encouraging me to return to the Chinese community for support. That is how the Center’s letter of support came about.
Regrettably, beyond one letter of support, the Center offered no real help. Even at a scheduled Legal Aid arbitration hearing, their lawyer failed to attend, causing the arbitrators to wait in vain and my appeal to be rejected. At the same time, a kind friend advised me to post my misfortune on the Montreal Chinese Forum for public discussion. The online response and feedback from those with similar experiences inspired me to hope for a group that genuinely represents the Chinese community.
Sunday forums thrived for a time. Though disputes, such as with certain cultural festival organizers, were disheartening, the forum allowed me to meet friends with shared sympathy and consensus. Witnessing the negative effects of “everyone only sweeping in front of their own door” attitudes in Chinese groups motivated me to do what I could to help others. Writing this, I recall Mr. Zhang Jinhui of a real estate company. The Chinese Mutual Aid Alliance ended without success, and my misfortunes on the internet were met with criticism and distortion by some. Where to go from here?
Fate played a cruel joke on me, letting me personally experience the flaws and failures of Canadian and Quebec medical, administrative, and judicial systems. These continuous hardships made my life hellish but led me to repeatedly reflect on life’s values. Having survived, I realized that merely complaining about ethnic shortcomings is insufficient. To change our community’s deep-rooted “everyone for themselves” mentality, one must start with oneself. This is why, despite the failure of the Mutual Aid Alliance, I persist in doing what little I can for the Chinese.
I am no scholar nor cultured person. What I write and discuss cannot match the elegance of literary or academic elites. Yet as an ordinary minority citizen, my grievances arise from the bottom of society against injustice. My efforts aim not only to voice grievances for my family’s misfortune but also to awaken the mainstream society and government institutions, so such tragedies don’t recur and harm the innocent.
Although much of my misfortune stems from bureaucracy and discrimination, my idealism, emotional dealings, and black-and-white worldview are also causes of my repeated misfortunes. Where will I go from here? I will continue writing. Inspired by helping others and requests for aid online, I plan not only to share my experiences as lessons but also to discuss social phenomena—especially how consumerism-driven values create family and marital crises, causing suspicion and estrangement among spouses and relatives. Future writings will inevitably touch on these themes.
I once thought that though I never reached material wealth, I was rich in love. But my second wife abandoned me after eight years of marriage and eloped with one of our daughters, leaving me with nothing. From the Literary City website’s multiple top listings of my article On Husbands Beating Wives and the Aftermath, to Canada No Worries featuring Farewell Forever as a selection; from countless help requests, calls, and the Montreal Chinese Forum’s Useful Telephone Numbers for Quebec - Chinese list, to the recently established blog Cherish Life, Mutual Help and Love, the readership is high. After Farewell Forever, I will take time to write about my marriage and relationships for the benefit of future readers.
God is just. Though money eludes me and love and marriage have brought me suffering, He has blessed me with a wealth of thought I never had before. Thanks to love’s grace, despite multiple blows, I still face reality, bravely crossing life’s perilous rapids and climbing cliffs without giving up. I believe my late wife would be comforted by this.
Of course, my writing is like a child learning to walk—embarrassing before literary masters—and my life is a failure in many ways. Is it necessary? After much thought, I believe it is. In this commercialized society, leaving material wealth for descendants is important. But more important is that they learn from their ancestors’ life paths, think thrice before acting—that is true wealth.
The road ahead is long, and much remains to be done. How to reclaim life’s value and not waste the rest of one’s days? Though still exploring life’s meaning, I no longer wander lost. No longer a slave to money, I have transcended and rediscovered the meaning of living. Though I still must struggle to survive, I no longer bow before mere survival needs. If I can calmly face life’s trivialities, what more could I ask for? As for my views clashing with today’s money-first society, I care not.
I wish for true love to find lasting unions, for every family to enjoy parental love and filial piety; may universal love embrace all classes, and may happiness and kindness dwell among mankind forever.
