儿子大闹90岁父亲葬礼纪录片：父亲葬礼来了一个陌生人

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When teeth clash and tongues collide, how can conflicts between people ever be avoided? It's not the conflict itself that's daunting, but rather the timely communication to dispel misunderstandings and differences. If both parties stubbornly cling to their own views, refusing to engage in dialogue, reconciliation becomes an arduous task. This dynamic, whether among friends or, even more so, within families, can be truly intricate.

Mr. Yang, at 42 years old, found himself entangled in a dispute with his father over a trivial matter nearly a decade ago. This led to a ten-year estrangement from home. only upon his father's recent passing did he reluctantly return to his roots. At the funeral, a stranger crossed his path, delivering three resounding slaps without a word. It was only after understanding the truth that Mr. Yang's tears flowed freely.

His account, at the age of 42, reflects the years of discord. "My relationship with my father was never amicable. Regardless of my ideas, he always opposed, unwilling to lend an attentive ear. Under his style of upbringing, I became robotic, devoid of independent thought. My actions were always dictated by others' opinions. I despised this version of myself, and with it, grew to despise my father. Since my early teens, clashes with him were incessant. After each dispute, I entertained the notion of leaving forever, but it remained just that—a fleeting thought. After all, there was still my mother at home.

As I grew older, influenced by my father's sternness in my youth, my career and love life both faltered. Devoid of formal education or a specific skill set, I lingered on society's fringes. Finding a wife proved elusive, and I remained single well into my thirties. While my mother fretted over me, believing my continued singledom was untenable, my father paid me no heed. On several occasions, during meals, he'd remark, 'Let him stay single. I've long washed my hands of him.' Hearing those words, I confess, left me indifferent. Let things be as they are. I find my own happiness, and since I've long relinquished hope in him.

At 32, my mother suddenly fell ill and passed away within two weeks. At the time, it felt as if the sky had fallen. Yet my father continued his disparaging remarks. In my grief-stricken state, I failed to discern his words' significance. Had I caught on, I would never have let him off so easily. After Mother's departure, I struggled to find my footing for a long while. Her parting words echoed in my ears: 'Find a good girl and spend your life with her.' To spare her worry, I actively engaged in blind dates. It so happened that I met a wonderful woman. Despite being a divorcee with a 4-year-old son, I was eager to be with her. Just as we were preparing to tie the knot, my father began stirring up trouble. He adamantly opposed our union, claiming she was a divorcee with a child—a marriage meant to support her son. Enraged, I engaged him in a fierce argument. The ordeal dragged on for months, and the woman, impatient, married someone else.

Because of this, I severed all ties with my father, shouting at him in a heated exchange. I disposed of every possession I'd used in our home, swearing never to return. He, in turn, remained unyielding, spewing vile words. Anger coursed through me, and I left with my suitcase. Departing home, I landed in the South, leading an itinerant and uncertain existence. Though life was tough, at least I was free. During my time away, I deleted every means of contacting him. Even when my aunt called after three months, saying my father was worried and passed along 500 yuan, urging me to accept, I merely chuckled, declining the money and deleting her contact as well. I made it clear to my relatives: anyone who dared to persuade me would be removed. No one held sway over me.

From that point onward, I never saw or heard from my father again. Occasionally, childhood friends passing by my place would mention my family's situation. In the blink of an eye, ten years flew by. I transformed from 32 to 42, the passing years leaving me unchanged, save for age. I remained alone, my resentment for my father intensifying rather than fading.

Nevertheless, I will never go back to see him. It's no concern of mine how he fares. I'll live my own life, free from attachments. Though I lack a wife or child, I'll manage my twilight years. I've already decided: starting at forty, I'll save ten yuan a day. By the time I'm sixty, I'll have enough for my own expenses.

Just when I was devising my retirement plan, one day, out of the blue, I received an unfamiliar call. The voice on the other end asked if I was Mr. Yang. I found it odd and queried their purpose. They identified themselves as villagers and informed me that my father was critically ill, with no one to care for him. They implored me to return promptly. At the mention of my father, I shivered, then mustered a disdainful smile, retorting, "Don't bother me," before hanging up. The person called a few more times, but I ignored each attempt.

About a week later, another unfamiliar number dialed in. This time, the caller got straight to the point, informing me that my father had passed away. They urged me to return for his funeral and settle his affairs. This piqued my interest. I cared little for the mourning, but the prospect of inheriting what little he had held appeal. I swiftly purchased the nearest train ticket, hurrying back to my hometown. After a seven-hour train ride, I finally arrived, marveling at the tremendous changes. What was once barren earth now lay beneath concrete, and the dilapidated homes had given way to grand structures. I hailed a cab and arrived at the village entrance, where several people stood. Spotting me, they all chimed, "Ah, you're back!"

Many gathered to see me, among them an elderly man whom I recognized as a distant relative. He too recognized me and welcomed me to the old house. Inside the cramped dwelling sat a multitude of people. The narrow yard sported an awning, beneath which stood a photo of my father, surrounded by mourners. So many years had passed since I last saw my father. Now, I was confronted with his posthumous image. Gazing into those eyes, I was overcome with an immense shock. I nearly stumbled and struggled to maintain my composure as I ventured into the house.

Returning to that familiar house, it seemed as if no time had passed at all. The room was crowded, chairs strewn about. My father's bedroom was adjacent to a cupboard where a black and white photo of me and my mother sat. Seeing this, my heart constricted, but stubbornness prevented me from acknowledging the pang. I felt uneasy, so I opted to kneel before the offering shed for the visitors, sharing my condolences. Most of the attendees were familiar faces. Those I didn't recognize were of advanced age—likely old friends of my father. They paid their respects, and I reciprocated.

In that moment, I felt an odd sensation. My father, who hadn't shown me much kindness in his lifetime, had passed away. Yet here I was, partaking in these customs. I had failed to fulfill my filial duties, and now, he was gone. The villagers reassured me, urging me not to dwell. Through their mediation, I finally comprehended that my father did care, perhaps more than anyone else.

With my eyes closed, tears flowed freely onto the pillow beneath me. I thought of my father—how he used to carry me around, how he stood up for me in fights, how we quarreled... I had been wrong, so terribly wrong. I shouldn't have let anger drive a wedge between us for so many years. He left without us ever meeting again. There were no second chances. From that point on, I would live with this gnawing guilt.

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