"Is this a happy family?"
The question hung heavy in the hall, echoing through Sophia's mind as she stood on stage. The lights burned her skin, but the weight pressing down on her heart was heavier than the spotlights. For the first time, she found herself agreeing with what the host had said earlier—that her father was not the genius, and perhaps he never had been.
Why? Because in the images that replayed in her mind, her father had admitted that her mother, Lily, had left behind an envelope. It was wrong that Lily abandoned them, yes, but the fact remained—her mother had been the true genius.
And then there was that other memory, sharp as broken glass. When her song "The Fireflies Are Flying" spread beyond the slums and caught the attention of a scout, a man had come knocking on their door. It was the first chance Sophia ever had at true recognition. But instead of opening the door to opportunity, Victor had beaten the man until he fled. The scout left with bruises, and Victor's reputation as an "irritable brute" spread across the neighborhood.
It was ironic, almost cruel. That act of violence indirectly gave Sophia her first taste of fame, not for her song, but for the scandal attached to her father's temper. Yet what followed? Nothing. Her father dismissed the industry, insisting that acting and music were useless, that fame was a poison. And after that, he never showed another piece of creative work again. His talents seemed to wither, as if they had burned out.
Sophia's journey into greatness had begun after that, but when she looked back now, she couldn't deny it:
Her father had been nothing more than the messenger.
The true genius was her mother.
The first song—the one that gave her strength, the one that defined her path—came from her mother's shadow, not her father's. And when she was four, the only thing Victor did well was to invent for himself the character of a warm, loving, angelic mother, and gift that image to Sophia as if it had never left.
But as for the rest of his fatherhood? He became a template for failure.
Pedantic. Stubborn. Unyielding.
Nothing good.
Memories bloomed painfully in her chest like flowers growing from the cracks of a cliff. Beautiful, yes, but born of pain and impossible to forget.
She remembered herself as a child, watching with tearful eyes as the scout left, while Victor stood in the doorway looking strangely content, even pleased. Sophia's heart had ached. In the images, he was so patient when teaching her to sing, he looked like a good father. But why was it always—always—at the most important crossroads of her life that he turned pedantic and stubborn, shattering her opportunities and reversing her fate?
Her chest heaved. The stage blurred. Finally, she shouted with all the strength she had:
"I don't understand you!
I don't thank you!
Never!"
The roar echoed across the studio. For the first time, Sophia's anger was directed squarely at her father's shadow.
The male host nodded sharply, seizing the moment.
"This," he said with conviction, "is the true genius girl! No matter how terrible her father was, she rose from adversity on her own. Her success has nothing to do with Victor—not at all!"
The female host, Nana, looked at Sophia with awe, her tone drenched in admiration.
"She is like the heroine of a novel—rising above countless hardships. Every obstacle made her shine brighter."
The audience clapped and cheered. At that moment, the consensus was clear: Victor was no more than a failed man in Sophia's story.
---
Far from the stage, in the quiet halls of Jinling University, Professor Chen Shanzhan was lecturing on social education. The hot topic of the day was Sophia's journey, and her name dominated classrooms and debates alike.
"This," Professor Chen said, pointing at the projected video, "is a textbook case of educational failure. Victor represents the typical failed man of our times. If it weren't for Sophia's own strong character, she would have collapsed in such an environment."
She adjusted her glasses and continued, her voice sharp:
"According to the third law of pedagogy, Victor's behavior was predictable. He became more outrageous, more pedantic, more stubborn—all in the name of so-called fatherly dignity."
Around the lecture hall, students nodded in recognition. Many of them had stubborn fathers of their own, men who clung to pride instead of nurturing. And seeing Sophia rise despite such circumstances only deepened their admiration.
She had not just succeeded—she had climbed from a pit where most children would have been buried.
---
Meanwhile, back on the stage of the variety program, the screen continued to play. The audience was drawn into the grainy footage of the past.
Sophia, just three years and ten months old, sang the opening stanza of the song her father had guided her through. Her childish voice rang clear, bright, and pure, sharpened by early Bel Canto training. It carried innocence, but also a shimmering illusion of beauty.
Then came that fateful day: October 1st, National Day.
Victor had returned home, covered in mud after falling during a food delivery run. He didn't want his daughter to see him in such a state, so he quickly changed clothes. Then, with a quiet smile, he placed a withered rose on the floor before her.
"Your mother turned into a butterfly," he said softly. "I met her just now. She told me she was too tired to fly because too few people are singing. The song hasn't fully been born yet, so she could only appear for a short while. This rose is from her. It was bright when she gave it, but by the time I carried it home, it had already withered."
Sophia's small face crumpled. She pouted, tears welling up, but she didn't sob aloud. Instead, she wiped her cheeks quietly, blaming herself. Why hadn't she finished the song? If she had, maybe her mother wouldn't have been so tired.
"I'm going to finish writing this song," she whispered fiercely.
"I want to see Mommy!"
She stared at the paper before her. The last unfinished line read: Who are you missing?
Her eyes fell on the withered rose, fragile and dead after its short bloom. Something sparked inside her. Words began to flow.
The roses on the ground wither…
She paused, chewing her lip. Then, from the window, Victor opened the glass and took in a breath of the cold night air. A gust of wind swept through the room, brushing against Sophia's hair. The chill carried inspiration.
Cold wind blows… cold wind blows…
Her heart raced. "But this can't just be for me," she murmured. "This song has to be sung by many people. It can't just say as long as I am with you. It has to say—as long as you are with me."
And with that change, the second stanza was born:
The roses on the ground wither,
Cold wind blows,
Cold wind blows,
As long as you are with me.
Her little face lit up with pride. "I finished the second verse! I'll definitely see Mommy now!"
Victor, standing by the window, gave her a tired but proud smile. He raised a thumb, his lips curving faintly.
But then, suddenly, he began to cough violently. His shoulders shook, and he pressed a handkerchief to his mouth.
Sophia's eyes widened in fear. She scrambled to his side, only to see him smile and spread the cloth—clean. "Fooled you again," he chuckled weakly.
She pouted, half-angry, half-relieved, before returning to her bench to swing her small legs and scribble new lines. She didn't see that in his other hand, hidden from her, the handkerchief was already stained deep with blood.
Victor clenched it tightly, his eyes turning toward the dark slum night beyond the window. The streets were full of arguments, curses, and despair. Life there felt suffocating, predictable, hopeless.
For one fleeting, terrible moment, he thought of ending it all. Jumping. Escaping the pain.
But then he turned back—and saw his daughter's bright little face, bent over paper with fierce determination. His chest tightened. His despair gave way to steel.
"I will die," he whispered to himself. "But not now. Not yet!"
---