The moment I was born, I seemed to be part of a set, as if my twin brother David and I were a package deal. We faced constant comparisons in our physical appearance. People were always comparing our personalities and academic performances as well! These constant comparisons made me decide not to go to the same university as my twin brother.

That is not to say we didn’t have good academic experiences in the past or didn’t get along. In eleventh grade, we were placed in the same class. I recall arriving early to the first class and being a bit disappointed when I saw David already seated at his desk. It was hard to avoid comparisons when we were in the same class. However, we found that we actually worked well together, in our own way. We would argue about the best way to solve a problem and debate its answer. As the year went on, I noticed that our teacher kept moving us closer and closer together. Our argument was actually productive.

However, we were two very different individuals. I was very involved in after-school activities, while David had better test scores than I did. I’m fond of writing while David enjoys playing computer games. I am currently studying English and French at McGill University, while David is studying computer science at Union College.

Besides escaping comparisons, there have been other benefits to going to different universities. The first one is that we are forced to talk to each other, as we no longer see each other every day. This is healthier for our relationship. The second, also the more important one, is that after having so many similar experiences together we can have our own experiences separate from one another. Going to a different university has benefited me thus far. It allows for more personal growth, and I’m not attached to the label of being a twin.

Chain of ________

My father and I have been separated for over two years. He was terribly harsh with me throughout my childhood, and I felt that I couldn’t forgive him. And yet, now he is dying, struggling to breathe through an oxygen tube. All I can think of is how much he loved me.

How he would kiss me on the forehead before school. How he bought me roller skates, although we were struggling by on his salary. How he would play chess and tennis with me, and take me to endless chess and tennis matches even though I never won anything. How he would fill in the quick crossword, leave a few clues and praise me if I solved them. He kept every article I ever had published, even during our many estranged periods. He gave me a lot of his savings to buy a flat after I became a single mum when my daughter was one year old. And he set my date of birth as the passcode on his phone.

Yet I’m ashamed to say I hated him for everything: my cutting, my anxiety, my depression.... He was there during the tough times, yet all I could think was that the tough times happened because of him, forgetting that the causes of events are complex, and that plenty of people who had happy childhoods have to deal with strict and pushy parents, too. I even stopped him from seeing my daughter, then three, the person that brought him most happiness, because I was scared he would hurt her, and that her life would be like mine. That decision would mean he never spoke to me again.

Born in 1930s, he was a man of few words, a silent romantic who signed his empty Valentine’s cards to my mother with only his first initials (姓名的首字母). Knowing he was old, I tried to get back in touch several times to make things right, but my mother said he didn’t want to hear from me. I understand that.

It’s much too late now. When I sit by his hospital bed and hold his large wrinkled hand, I ask him to squeeze it if he can hear me, he doesn’t. So I tell him a few of the things I should have told him, though it’s hard to say the words that I love him very much, and that I’m sorry about the estrangement. And it reminds me of what I’ve known for a long time: my dad didn’t know how to be a father to me when I was young, because his father was harsh to him as a child.

I never thought that I’d feel this broken at losing him. I wish that his eyes will open, even for just a few days. I will give him a letter thanking him for all the things he has helped me and apologizing for all the ways I have wronged him. And when I give the letter to him, I will bring my five-year-old daughter with me, so he can see her happiness and sweetness and learn that the chain of hurt has finally been broken.