The Sky That Doesn't Fall

This whole business started last month.

I went to my sister's place to pick something up, and as soon as I walked in, I saw Fourth Aunt (my mother’s fourth sister) sitting on the sofa, deep in a laoke—one of those long, rambling chats—with my sister. Fourth Aunt is sixty-three this year and has always been quite robust; she usually has more energy for Square Dancing than I do. When she saw me, she waved me over: "Oh, you’re just in time. Come feel this and tell me what it is."

I froze. Feel what? She pointed to the top of her left thigh, saying she’d felt a little lump while bathing a couple of days ago. She said it was about the size of a soybean, didn’t hurt or itch, and she wanted me to see if it was anything serious. My sister chimed in from the side: "Mom, really! I was just about to talk to you about this, and here you are letting just anyone poke at it."

Fourth Aunt wasn't pleased: "She’s my niece, not a stranger. Besides, it’s just a quick touch, what’s the harm?"

I leaned in and felt it. There was indeed a small lump. It was round and didn't show on the surface of the skin, but you could feel it clearly when pressing down—hard, smooth, painless, and mobile. I said, "Fourth Aunt, it’s hard to say what this is just by feeling it. It’s probably best to go to the hospital."

She dismissed me with a wave of her hand: "Oh, what for? It’s just a 'fatty lump.' Your grandfather had them on his body for decades; they're no bother."

The matter should have ended there. But the next day, my cousin—Fourth Aunt’s son—called me. His name is Li Zhiqiang; he’s two years younger than me and runs a construction materials business in the city. Usually, he’s so busy his feet hardly touch the ground. He asked, "Sis, you know about that lump on Mom’s leg, right? Did she tell you?"

I said I knew, that I’d felt it yesterday.

Zhiqiang got anxious over the phone: "Why is she like this? I told her to go to the hospital, but she refuses, dead set on the idea that it’s nothing. Yesterday my wife felt it too and thought it didn't seem right—said it was quite hard, not like a typical lipoma. I tried to persuade her for ages, but she just got snappy with me, saying I’m making a mountain out of a molehill."

My heart sank a little. To be honest, when I felt it, the hardness had bothered me too. Usually, a lipoma is soft; that one was definitely on the firmer side. But I didn't dare say that to Fourth Aunt. With her temperament, she won’t believe a word you say, and the more you try to persuade her, the more stubborn she gets.

Zhiqiang said he was driving back and was determined to drag her for a check-up. I told him not to panic—maybe it was just a common fibroma. He replied, "Sis, you don’t understand. My wife’s aunt had a lump on her leg last year, didn't think much of it, and then they found out... never mind, I won't go there. Anyway, I’m taking her this time no matter what."

After hanging up, I thought it over and called Fourth Aunt to try a bit of "side-attack" persuasion. As soon as she picked up, she launched a preemptive strike: "Did Zhiqiang call you? I knew it, he’s definitely going around looking for people to talk me into it. I’m telling you, I’m not going. It’s such a tiny thing, why run to the hospital and waste that 'wronged money'?"

I said, "Fourth Aunt, he just wants to get it checked. If it’s nothing, great; if there’s something, it’s better to deal with it early. Think about it—if you don’t go, Zhiqiang will be worrying every day. You have the heart to let him be that restless?"

She went silent for a moment, then muttered, "I didn't see him being this attentive when he was a kid, and now he’s trying to manage me."

I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. "Well, that’s because you were the one managing him back then. Now that he’s grown up, it’s his turn to look after you."

Finally, she relented: "Fine, fine, I’ll go. Once the check-up shows nothing, we’ll see what else he has to say."

I didn't go along on the day of the exam; Zhiqiang picked her up. Later, he sent me a WeChat message saying they’d done an ultrasound. The doctor had looked at it for a long time and said the position was a bit deep, recommending a needle biopsy. I was at work, and when I saw the word "biopsy," my hands went cold. Generally, doctors don't suggest a biopsy unless they suspect something "not good."

I quickly asked, "How did Fourth Aunt react?"

Zhiqiang replied with a crying emoji: "How else? She flipped out on the spot, said the doctor was just scamming her for money—that an ultrasound wasn't enough and now they wanted to jab her with a needle. She flatly refused. I wore my tongue out for two hours at the hospital, and in the end, it was only when my wife started crying that she finally agreed."

For the next few days, our whole family was on edge. My other aunts and my uncle all called to ask for updates. Fourth Aunt herself acted as if it were nothing, telling everyone she met: "What could possibly be wrong? I eat well and sleep soundly. It’s just a little lump, and they’re acting like it’s a terminal illness."

But I knew she was scared deep down. Fourth Aunt has been "hard-mouthed"—stubborn and stoic—her whole life; she’s the type who’d say if the sky fell, there’d be tall people to hold it up. When she was young, her husband passed away early, and she raised Zhiqiang all by herself. No matter how much bitterness she tasted, she never uttered the word "hard" in front of others. With a personality like hers, the more she cares about something, the more she pretends to be indifferent.

The results came back on a Wednesday. Zhiqiang sent me a photo of the report. I zoomed in to read it line by line: "a few lymphocytes and histiocytes seen under the microscope," "no clear malignant cells found." The final conclusion read: "Consistent with benign reactive lymph node hyperplasia."

I let out a huge sigh of relief and called Zhiqiang. His voice was hoarse. He said, "Sis, I haven't slept well these past few days, just terrified something was wrong. My mom hasn't had an easy life; I haven't even let her enjoy her 'blessings' yet."

I said, "Alright, as long as it's fine. Don't cry now; if your mom sees you, she'll tease you again."

Zhiqiang said, "I’ve made an appointment with the doctor to have it removed via minimally invasive surgery next week, just to settle it once and for all. The doctor says it’s a minor procedure under local anesthesia; she can go home right after."

After hanging up, I figured I’d call Fourth Aunt to congratulate her. When she picked up, her tone was still the same: "I told you so! It’s absolutely nothing, but you all had to make such a fuss. And Zhiqiang’s wife, weeping and wailing like it was a life-and-death parting—what kind of behavior is that!"

I said, "Fourth Aunt, she was just worried about you. You’re being quite ungrateful."

She paused, and her voice suddenly softened: "I know... I know they mean well. But look, I haven't saved much for the kids in this lifetime, and now that I’m old, I’m running to the hospital every other day and spending their money. I just can't sit right with it."

Hearing that made my nose tingle with an urge to cry. I said, "Fourth Aunt, what are you saying? Zhiqiang is your son—if he doesn't spend it on you, who should he spend it on? Back when you were young, you put him through school and helped him get a wife all by yourself. Why didn't you say it 'didn't sit right' then? Now that he's showing his filial piety, isn't that just the way of the world?"

Fourth Aunt laughed on the other end, her voice a bit choked: "Fine, fine, you’re just like that cousin of yours—full of big speeches and logic. Are you coming for the surgery next week? If you don’t, I’ll just take the bus there myself."

I said, "I’m coming, I absolutely have to. If you take the bus by yourself, Zhiqiang will scold me to death."

On the day of the surgery, I went along with Zhiqiang and his wife. The doctor said it was just a minor outpatient procedure, a matter of ten or twenty minutes. As Fourth Aunt changed into the surgical gown and was wheeled in on the gurney, she even turned back to tell us: "You lot wait outside, don't worry your heads off. Just browse your phones or whatever."

The doors closed. Zhiqiang paced back and forth in the corridor, while his wife sat on a chair, her hands clenched tight. I told them not to be so nervous, that the doctor said it was a minor op. Zhiqiang said, "I know, but it’s just... you don't understand."

I understood. Of course I did. It’s that feeling where you know the sky isn't falling, but you still can't help but keep looking up.

About twenty minutes later, the doors opened. The doctor wheeled Fourth Aunt out, saying the surgery went smoothly and the excision was clean—just be careful not to get it wet and change the dressing on time. Fourth Aunt had gauze wrapped around her leg, but she was sharp as a tack, immediately barking orders at Zhiqiang: "Go settle the bill, don't just stand there like a wooden post."

On the way home, I drove. Zhiqiang sat in the passenger seat, with Fourth Aunt and her daughter-in-law in the back. Fourth Aunt touched the gauze on her leg and suddenly said, "This thing was growing on my body and I didn't think much of it, yet somehow it scared you all into that state?"

Zhiqiang turned around and said, "Mom, you are our sky. If the sky falls, where are we supposed to hide?"

Fourth Aunt reached out and gave him a smack: "Stop being so mushy and sit properly."

But in the rearview mirror, I saw Fourth Aunt turn her head to look out the window, her eyes brimming with red.

After that, Fourth Aunt rested at home for a few days. Zhiqiang ran over every day—stewing pork ribs one day, simmering chicken soup the next—until Fourth Aunt was thoroughly annoyed, saying, "Your cooking isn't even as good as mine." She complained, but she cleaned her plate every single time.

When I went to see her, the stitches on her leg had already been removed, leaving a tiny scar. She pointed to it and said to me, "Look at this. Just for this tiny little thing, we tossed and turned for over a month and spent so much money. Was it worth it?"

I said, "It was worth it. Money can be earned back, but if something happens to a person, no amount of money can bring them back."

Fourth Aunt fell silent for a while and sighed: "I just feel like I'm old and useless now. It used to be me protecting them; now it’s their turn to protect me."

I said, "Fourth Aunt, that’s just life. You protected them as they grew up, and they protect you as you grow old. Isn't that what family is?"

Fourth Aunt didn't say anything; she just smiled and got up to go to the kitchen to pour me some water. Seeing her still walking with a bit of a limp, I quickly stood up and said I’d do it. She waved me off: "Sit down, sit down. I’m not a cripple; I can still pour a cup of water, can't I?"

She could, of course she could. She was still the same "hard-mouthed" Fourth Aunt, and she’d never change. But I knew in my heart that after this ordeal, she understood better than anyone—that son she had raised single-handedly had truly grown up. He was now big enough to be someone she could lean on.

Life went back to normal. Fourth Aunt returned to her Square Dancing, telling everyone she met, "Hospitals these days just love a fuss; a tiny lump and they have to use a knife." But what she didn't say out loud was that the son who insisted on taking her to surgery had shown her exactly what it means to have someone to depend on in old age.

Some kinds of love aren't spoken; they are found in the doing.