The Ugly Dad

When I placed the last plate of Sweet and Sour Spare Ribs on the table, the ceiling fan in the living room was still turning slowly. The edges of the fan blades were dusted with a ring of pale gray grime, leftover from last year's plum rain season. As it spun, it gave off a faint buzzing sound, like an old insect trapped on the ceiling. The sweet aroma of spare ribs drifted through the air, blending the caramelized sweetness of rock sugar with the slight tang of fragrant vinegar—this had always been Cindy's favorite scent. When she was little, she would cling to the kitchen doorframe, her round face flushed red from the steam, little fingers pointing at the clay pot as she asked, "Father, how much longer will the ribs take? Can I taste one first? Just a small piece—I won't tell Mother." The doorframe still bore the faint marks she had scratched on tiptoe all those years ago, yet the clinging presence she once had standing right behind me had long since vanished. "Mom, can Mr. Shawn go to the next parent-teacher meeting instead?" Cindy's voice suddenly pierced the silence, like a slender needle striking my heart without warning. The white porcelain plate in my hand wobbled slightly, amber sauce sliding down its edge, dripping onto the off-white tablecloth and spreading a small, dark stain. I hurriedly wiped it with a napkin, but my trembling fingertips betrayed me. I heard her step closer, her voice thick with disdain: "Maggie laughed at me yesterday, saying the scar on your face looked like monster scales, and said I don't have a real dad—only Mr. Shawn is like a father. Mr. Shawn takes me to ride the carousel and buys me limited-edition rabbit plush toys; you can't do any of that." My Adam's apple moved as I turned to look at her, wanting to explain, "I didn't mean to have scars," but she stepped back, as if avoiding something filthy: "Don't touch me! Your hands are wrinkled too, and they feel filthy." Rachel Jones sat on the sofa, her fingers swiftly swiping across the phone screen. Hearing this, she didn't look up, only curled her lips at Jim Shawn opposite her, her voice sickly soft: "Jim Shawn, look at this child, always saying childish things. But then again, every time you take her to the park, she is very happy." Jim Shawn set down the celadon tea cup; the scrolling lotus pattern on its rim gleamed with a cold light. He reached out to gently stroke Cindy's head, the motion so natural it was as if he were caressing his own child. The silver ring on his ring finger caught my eye painfully—it was the couple's set I'd bought after saving three months' salary last year for Rachel's birthday. At the time, Rachel hugged me and said, "Felix Lincoln, you're so foolish, wasting money," then turned and slipped the ring onto another's finger. Jim Shawn smiled and said, "As long as Cindy is willing, I'll definitely attend the next parent-teacher meeting. Then we can have a proper talk with the teacher about your studies. How does that sound?" Cindy immediately laughed and threw herself into Jim Shawn's arms: "Thank you, Mr. Shawn! You are the best!" "Hello? I am still here." I placed the plate heavily on the dining table; the clash of porcelain against wood silenced the living room instantly. I stared at Rachel Jones, trying to keep my voice steady: "I'm still here in this family, yet you all already treat me like an outsider?" Only then did Rachel Jones put down her phone, her brows furrowed as if looking at some troublesome matter: "Felix Lincoln, what do you mean by this? Jim Shawn only went to help by attending a parent-teacher meeting once; is it really necessary to make such a fuss?" "Is it really necessary?" I repeated her words, my heart seized by an icy grip, "Last month, on Family Day, I rented a business van, bought the strawberry cake you love, the cotton candy Cindy adores, yet with a single call, you invited Jim Shawn over." “On the way, you told him, 'Jim Shawn, Cindy wants you to join her on the roller coaster.' Did you ever say a word like that to me?” Rachel Jones' eyes flickered, her lips stiffened as she retorted, "Wasn't I just afraid you'd be distracted driving? With Jim Shawn, Cindy's happy." "Happy?" I sneered, "You are the only ones feeling happy; I feel like nothing more than a driver!" “Cindy leaned on Jim Shawn's shoulder, eating ice cream, cream smudged on his clothes, and you smiled as you handed him a wet wipe; You talked about the new animated movie, about school—without uttering a single word to me from beginning to end.” “I gripped the steering wheel, watching you all through the rearview mirror, feeling utterly ridiculous!” At that moment, Jim Shawn interjected, his tone feigning hurt: "It's all my fault; I shouldn't have disturbed your Family Day. I apologize."