But as he types, he can feel his father's eyes on him. Not here, not in this room, but somewhere. Watching. Waiting. The same way he watched and waited when Jian was a child, the way he watched and waited when Jian left for America, the way he watches and waits now that Jian has built something that matters.
The cake is finished. The celebration is over. The real work begins now, and Jian knows with a certainty that lives in his bones that his father will be part of it, whether he wants him to be or not.
Some things you don't escape. You just learn to carry them differently.
He saves the document and closes his laptop. The room is quiet. The future is wide open, terrifying and full of promise, and somewhere in the silence of his phone, his father is waiting.