In early September I was finally ready to return to Tōkyō. I went to my father and asked for a resumption of my educational stipend.
"Remaining here like this, I'll never secure the kind of position you've suggested."
I presented my return to Tōkyō as a quest to fulfill his expectations.
"Of course it's only until I find a position," I added.
Inwardly, I held little hope of procuring anything remarkable. My father, though, who had little knowledge of the state of the world, saw things differently.
"I suppose we can manage for a while then. But don't let it be for too long. As soon as you've found a suitable post, you'll need to support yourself. In principle, the day you graduate should be the last day you rely on anyone else. Today's youth are well versed in spending but give no thought to earning."
Father voiced multiple grievances. Among them were statements like, "It used to be that children supported their parents, but today's children just take and take." I simply listened in silence.
When the airing of grievances came to an end, I quietly moved to rise from my seat. Father asked when I was planning to leave. From my perspective, sooner was better.
"Ask your mother to choose an auspicious day."
"I'll do that."
In those days I was uncharacteristically deferential toward my father. I hoped to take my leave without upsetting him. Father stopped me again.
"When you leave for Tōkyō, the house will be lonely again. At any rate, it'll just be your mother and me. It would be one thing if I were healthy, but in my current state there's no telling what may happen."