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“ I miss you，” my father said to me over the phone.
I hadn’t seen him for four days. He had been in the hospital for more weeks than I could keep track of， and had recently been transferred to a specialist hospital about an hour away from home. I was only a freshman in high school at the time， so I had to attend school during the week and could only visit him on weekends. My mom spent most nights at the hospital with him while I stayed home alone.
My surprise lasted only a couple seconds， during which I became very still and swallowed hard. “I miss you too，” I choked out， holding back tears. They were the three most significant words my father had ever said to me.
When he passed away less than a month later， they became the most significant words he would ever say to me. He had never said “I love you” to me. That night was the first and only time he ever told me he missed me.
My father had never been a man of many words. He left that to my mother， the chatty， extroverted half of the pair. For years I barely understood what he did for a living. All I knew was that he was an engineer， which in my young mind meant one thing： trains. I imagined my dad driving steam engines across the back roads of America， always somehow returning home in time for dinner. （He was， in fact， an electrical engineer.）
I’m sure being the only male in a family with three women—his wife and two daughters—didn’t help. My father would often escape to the garage to 1）tinker with small pieces of technology—a circuit board， a watch， a cassette player. He would take a Chinese-language novel with him to the bathroom or bedroom and remain out of sight for hours. Or he would park himself in front of the television to watch a 2）San Francisco 49ers football game.
By the time I was ten， I had become an obsessive 49ers fan. It had started from curiosity， from a young girl’s 3）intangible desire to connect with her father， but it soon became my own passion. I would pepper my dad with questions about the rules， about certain plays， about this player or that coach. He didn’t seem to mind having his younger daughter impose upon his weekly ritual； I suspect he secretly 4）relished it. We fueled one another’s passions for the sport to the point where we drove my mother and sister a little nuts with our single-minded devotion. I promised my dad that as soon as I was old enough to work and earn money， I would take him to a 49ers game.
I began following my father into other 5）arenas of his life. When my mom and sister went shopping for clothes at the mall， I would go with my dad to the bookstore. I watched with awe as he practiced his pseudo kung fu moves with a wooden 6）rod from a closet. I often stood behind his chair with my chin resting on his head as he and my mom lingered after a meal.
He enjoyed telling corny jokes at the dinner table， jokes that often made my mom groan and roll her eyes. I would always laugh loudly at his jokes， even when I didn’t understand them， and was rewarded by a knowing， just-betweenus grin that my dad would send across the table. In those fleeting moments， I may not have understood what he meant， but I felt like I understood him.
It’s hard for me to explain why I felt this way. In many regards my dad was the stereotypical Chinese father. He didn’t trouble himself with the day-to-day details of raising two daughters. He wasn’t the type to shower us with hugs or kisses. He wasn’t the one we went to when we were in need of parental advice. Looking back， I can’t remember a single conversation of deep significance that I had with my father.
But this is what he did do： on one of the rare occasions he cooked dinner for the family， he made salt-and-pepper prawns with so much salt and pepper that my sister and I were raving about it for weeks.（My mother promptly scolded him and switched us back to 7）bland， low-salt food the following day.）
He sincerely thanked my sister and me every time we gave him yet another striped tie for Christmas. He watched Beauty and the Beast and other Disney movies with me. He let me into his world and the things he loved on a regular basis. But he just didn’t let me in； he welcomed me and let me know—somehow， without words—that he was delighted to be sharing these things with me.
And finally， just weeks before we had to say goodbye forever， he overcame thousands of years of cultural norms and said aloud what he actually felt： “I miss you.” At the time none of us thought he wouldn’t make it； we were convinced that a cure or a miracle was just around the corner. I wonder， though， if my dad knew he was running out of time， which is why he chose to give me what remains one of my most precious memories of him all these years later.
Those are not the three words that we typically think of in American culture. “I love you” has taken on the status of myth and legend， three tiny words with the power of giants to 8）slay or fairy godmothers to bring enchanted happy endings. We wonder if any relationship can ever feel authentic or complete without these words. Even I have occasionally fallen into this trap. My dad never told me he loved me—at least， not in words. In the end， that doesn’t matter. What matters is that I knew he loved me. And with each passing year that he’s not in my life， I know it with even more certainty.
I miss you too， Daddy.
“我想你，”父亲在电话里对我说。
我已有四天没见到他了。我已经记不得他在医院里待了多少个星期，而且他最近又被转到了另一间专科医院，离家有差不多一个小时的距离。那时的我不过是一名高一学生，所以在平日我不得不去上学，只能在周末去看他。大多数的夜晚，我妈妈都在医院里陪着他，而我则一个人独自呆在家里。
我的惊讶只持续了几秒钟，期间，我无声地咽下心头的涌动。“我也想你，”我哽咽着说道，努力忍住眼泪。那是我父亲对我说过的最有意义的三个字。
不到一个月，他便去世了，从此，那三个字成了他对我讲过最有意义的话。他从未对我说过“我爱你”。那天晚上是他第一次也是唯一一次对我说他想我了。
我的父亲从不是个多话之人。话都留给我母亲来说了，他们这一对中，母亲是性格外向叽叽喳喳的那一个。多年来，我一直不明白他靠什么为生。我只知道他曾是一名工程师，这在我年幼的心里只意味着一种东西：火车。我想象着我老爸开着蒸汽火车穿过美国的乡间小路，但不知怎的，却总是能及时赶回家吃晚饭。（他其实是名电气工程师。）
作为家中唯一的男性，面对妻子和两个女儿这三个女人，肯定无助于改变其沉默寡言的习惯。我父亲常常会逃到车库里去胡乱修补一些小器械——电路板、手表、卡式录音机。他会带上一本中文小说到浴室或卧室里去，几个小时不见踪影。或者他会端坐在电视机前观看一场旧金山49人队的橄榄球赛。
当我十岁时，我也变成了49人队的狂热粉丝。一切始于好奇，始于一个小女孩想与父亲亲近的难以捉摸的内心冀求，但这很快就变成了我自己的嗜好。我会不停地问老爸关于规则、关于某场比赛、关于这个球员或那个教练的问题。他似乎也不介意他的小女儿掺和到自己每周的例行消遣里；我猜想他没准还为此偷乐。我们还助长了彼此对于这项运动的热情，那种一根筋的狂热快把我的母亲和姐姐逼疯了。我向老爸保证说，等我长大成人能够工作赚钱了，就带他去看49人队的现场比赛。
我开始跟随父亲进入他人生的另一个舞台。母亲和姐姐去商场逛街买衣服时，我会和老爸一起去书店。我会一脸敬畏地看着他从某个壁橱里拿出一根木棍假装练习功夫拳脚。当他和妈妈饭后小憩时，我常常站在他的椅子背后，将下巴搁在他头上。
他喜欢在餐桌上讲一些老掉牙的笑话，那些笑话常常让妈妈抱怨和翻白眼。我却总会因为他的笑话而放声大笑，即使我并不明白其含义，而老爸则会越过餐桌奖励给我一个心领神会“只有咱俩懂”的那种微笑。在那些稍纵即逝的时刻里，我也许并不懂得他所讲笑话的含义，但我觉得自己似乎懂他。
很难解释为什么我会有这样的感觉。从很多方面来说，我老爸就是个典型的“中国式”父亲。他没操心去管两个女儿成长的细节问题。他不是那种会整天给我们拥抱或亲吻的人。他也不是那个当我们需要家长意见时会去询问的人。回想起来，我与父亲之间意义深刻的谈话我连一次都记不起来。
但他做过这么些事情：有次，他罕有地为全家人做饭，那椒盐炒虾里过量的椒盐让我和姐姐抱怨了好几个星期。（我母亲毫不迟疑地责骂他，第二天就给我们换回清淡低盐的菜式。）当姐姐和我每到圣诞节又送了他一根条纹领带时，他会真诚地对我们表示感谢。他会和我一起观看《美女和野兽》以及其他迪士尼电影。他让我走进他的世界以及他平日热爱的事物。但他不仅仅是让我进入他的世界；他欢迎我，并让我知道——不知怎的，虽然不用言语——他很高兴能与我分享这些东西。
最后，在我们不得不永远说再见的几周前，他突破了千百年来的文化习规，大声说出了他的真实感受：“我想你。”那时候，我们都以为他能挺过来的；我们都确信某个疗法或是奇迹很快就要出现了。但，我想，爸爸是不是知道自己时间不多了，所以才选择留给我这一场回忆，这多年后我依然珍视的回忆。
在美国文化里，那三个字并不是我们通常会想到的词句。“我爱你”已经成了神话和传说，三个小小的字词便有着巨人杀戮或仙女教母用魔法实现欢乐结局的力量。如果没有了这几个字，各种关系还能让我们感觉真实或是完整吗？甚至连我都时常掉进这个陷阱。
我老爸从未说过他爱我——至少，没有用言语表达过。但最终，那并不重要。重要的是，我知道他爱过我。而在他离开我生命后的每一年里，我对此更加确信不疑。
I hadn’t seen him for four days. He had been in the hospital for more weeks than I could keep track of， and had recently been transferred to a specialist hospital about an hour away from home. I was only a freshman in high school at the time， so I had to attend school during the week and could only visit him on weekends. My mom spent most nights at the hospital with him while I stayed home alone.
My surprise lasted only a couple seconds， during which I became very still and swallowed hard. “I miss you too，” I choked out， holding back tears. They were the three most significant words my father had ever said to me.
When he passed away less than a month later， they became the most significant words he would ever say to me. He had never said “I love you” to me. That night was the first and only time he ever told me he missed me.
My father had never been a man of many words. He left that to my mother， the chatty， extroverted half of the pair. For years I barely understood what he did for a living. All I knew was that he was an engineer， which in my young mind meant one thing： trains. I imagined my dad driving steam engines across the back roads of America， always somehow returning home in time for dinner. （He was， in fact， an electrical engineer.）
I’m sure being the only male in a family with three women—his wife and two daughters—didn’t help. My father would often escape to the garage to 1）tinker with small pieces of technology—a circuit board， a watch， a cassette player. He would take a Chinese-language novel with him to the bathroom or bedroom and remain out of sight for hours. Or he would park himself in front of the television to watch a 2）San Francisco 49ers football game.
By the time I was ten， I had become an obsessive 49ers fan. It had started from curiosity， from a young girl’s 3）intangible desire to connect with her father， but it soon became my own passion. I would pepper my dad with questions about the rules， about certain plays， about this player or that coach. He didn’t seem to mind having his younger daughter impose upon his weekly ritual； I suspect he secretly 4）relished it. We fueled one another’s passions for the sport to the point where we drove my mother and sister a little nuts with our single-minded devotion. I promised my dad that as soon as I was old enough to work and earn money， I would take him to a 49ers game.
I began following my father into other 5）arenas of his life. When my mom and sister went shopping for clothes at the mall， I would go with my dad to the bookstore. I watched with awe as he practiced his pseudo kung fu moves with a wooden 6）rod from a closet. I often stood behind his chair with my chin resting on his head as he and my mom lingered after a meal.
He enjoyed telling corny jokes at the dinner table， jokes that often made my mom groan and roll her eyes. I would always laugh loudly at his jokes， even when I didn’t understand them， and was rewarded by a knowing， just-betweenus grin that my dad would send across the table. In those fleeting moments， I may not have understood what he meant， but I felt like I understood him.
It’s hard for me to explain why I felt this way. In many regards my dad was the stereotypical Chinese father. He didn’t trouble himself with the day-to-day details of raising two daughters. He wasn’t the type to shower us with hugs or kisses. He wasn’t the one we went to when we were in need of parental advice. Looking back， I can’t remember a single conversation of deep significance that I had with my father.
But this is what he did do： on one of the rare occasions he cooked dinner for the family， he made salt-and-pepper prawns with so much salt and pepper that my sister and I were raving about it for weeks.（My mother promptly scolded him and switched us back to 7）bland， low-salt food the following day.）
He sincerely thanked my sister and me every time we gave him yet another striped tie for Christmas. He watched Beauty and the Beast and other Disney movies with me. He let me into his world and the things he loved on a regular basis. But he just didn’t let me in； he welcomed me and let me know—somehow， without words—that he was delighted to be sharing these things with me.
And finally， just weeks before we had to say goodbye forever， he overcame thousands of years of cultural norms and said aloud what he actually felt： “I miss you.” At the time none of us thought he wouldn’t make it； we were convinced that a cure or a miracle was just around the corner. I wonder， though， if my dad knew he was running out of time， which is why he chose to give me what remains one of my most precious memories of him all these years later.
Those are not the three words that we typically think of in American culture. “I love you” has taken on the status of myth and legend， three tiny words with the power of giants to 8）slay or fairy godmothers to bring enchanted happy endings. We wonder if any relationship can ever feel authentic or complete without these words. Even I have occasionally fallen into this trap. My dad never told me he loved me—at least， not in words. In the end， that doesn’t matter. What matters is that I knew he loved me. And with each passing year that he’s not in my life， I know it with even more certainty.
I miss you too， Daddy.
“我想你，”父亲在电话里对我说。
我已有四天没见到他了。我已经记不得他在医院里待了多少个星期，而且他最近又被转到了另一间专科医院，离家有差不多一个小时的距离。那时的我不过是一名高一学生，所以在平日我不得不去上学，只能在周末去看他。大多数的夜晚，我妈妈都在医院里陪着他，而我则一个人独自呆在家里。
我的惊讶只持续了几秒钟，期间，我无声地咽下心头的涌动。“我也想你，”我哽咽着说道，努力忍住眼泪。那是我父亲对我说过的最有意义的三个字。
不到一个月，他便去世了，从此，那三个字成了他对我讲过最有意义的话。他从未对我说过“我爱你”。那天晚上是他第一次也是唯一一次对我说他想我了。
我的父亲从不是个多话之人。话都留给我母亲来说了，他们这一对中，母亲是性格外向叽叽喳喳的那一个。多年来，我一直不明白他靠什么为生。我只知道他曾是一名工程师，这在我年幼的心里只意味着一种东西：火车。我想象着我老爸开着蒸汽火车穿过美国的乡间小路，但不知怎的，却总是能及时赶回家吃晚饭。（他其实是名电气工程师。）
作为家中唯一的男性，面对妻子和两个女儿这三个女人，肯定无助于改变其沉默寡言的习惯。我父亲常常会逃到车库里去胡乱修补一些小器械——电路板、手表、卡式录音机。他会带上一本中文小说到浴室或卧室里去，几个小时不见踪影。或者他会端坐在电视机前观看一场旧金山49人队的橄榄球赛。
当我十岁时，我也变成了49人队的狂热粉丝。一切始于好奇，始于一个小女孩想与父亲亲近的难以捉摸的内心冀求，但这很快就变成了我自己的嗜好。我会不停地问老爸关于规则、关于某场比赛、关于这个球员或那个教练的问题。他似乎也不介意他的小女儿掺和到自己每周的例行消遣里；我猜想他没准还为此偷乐。我们还助长了彼此对于这项运动的热情，那种一根筋的狂热快把我的母亲和姐姐逼疯了。我向老爸保证说，等我长大成人能够工作赚钱了，就带他去看49人队的现场比赛。
我开始跟随父亲进入他人生的另一个舞台。母亲和姐姐去商场逛街买衣服时，我会和老爸一起去书店。我会一脸敬畏地看着他从某个壁橱里拿出一根木棍假装练习功夫拳脚。当他和妈妈饭后小憩时，我常常站在他的椅子背后，将下巴搁在他头上。
他喜欢在餐桌上讲一些老掉牙的笑话，那些笑话常常让妈妈抱怨和翻白眼。我却总会因为他的笑话而放声大笑，即使我并不明白其含义，而老爸则会越过餐桌奖励给我一个心领神会“只有咱俩懂”的那种微笑。在那些稍纵即逝的时刻里，我也许并不懂得他所讲笑话的含义，但我觉得自己似乎懂他。
很难解释为什么我会有这样的感觉。从很多方面来说，我老爸就是个典型的“中国式”父亲。他没操心去管两个女儿成长的细节问题。他不是那种会整天给我们拥抱或亲吻的人。他也不是那个当我们需要家长意见时会去询问的人。回想起来，我与父亲之间意义深刻的谈话我连一次都记不起来。
但他做过这么些事情：有次，他罕有地为全家人做饭，那椒盐炒虾里过量的椒盐让我和姐姐抱怨了好几个星期。（我母亲毫不迟疑地责骂他，第二天就给我们换回清淡低盐的菜式。）当姐姐和我每到圣诞节又送了他一根条纹领带时，他会真诚地对我们表示感谢。他会和我一起观看《美女和野兽》以及其他迪士尼电影。他让我走进他的世界以及他平日热爱的事物。但他不仅仅是让我进入他的世界；他欢迎我，并让我知道——不知怎的，虽然不用言语——他很高兴能与我分享这些东西。
最后，在我们不得不永远说再见的几周前，他突破了千百年来的文化习规，大声说出了他的真实感受：“我想你。”那时候，我们都以为他能挺过来的；我们都确信某个疗法或是奇迹很快就要出现了。但，我想，爸爸是不是知道自己时间不多了，所以才选择留给我这一场回忆，这多年后我依然珍视的回忆。
在美国文化里，那三个字并不是我们通常会想到的词句。“我爱你”已经成了神话和传说，三个小小的字词便有着巨人杀戮或仙女教母用魔法实现欢乐结局的力量。如果没有了这几个字，各种关系还能让我们感觉真实或是完整吗？甚至连我都时常掉进这个陷阱。
我老爸从未说过他爱我——至少，没有用言语表达过。但最终，那并不重要。重要的是，我知道他爱过我。而在他离开我生命后的每一年里，我对此更加确信不疑。