Silly birthday cards were always the norm in my family. Sentimental cards with messages of love were viewed with disdain and a faint sense of embarrassment. Looking back now， I dont ever remember the words “I love you” being spoken.

Then， just before I turned 29， Dad retired and my parents moved from Victoria to Queensland. As Im an only child， my friends were shocked that my parents could move so far away from me. I just shrugged， not feeling at all fazed by the situation—instead seeing it as an opportunity to have somewhere warm to go on holidays.

But six months into their retirement， my mother phoned to say she had some bad news： Dad had cancer.“But dont worry，” she told me. It was lymphoma and the doctors had assured her this was the most treatable kind. With chemotherapy， he would be “right as rain” in a couple of months. However， when I arrived in Queensland for a visit two months later， I was shocked by my fathers appearance. He was frail， underweight and had lost all his hair from the chemo. Although he was only 65， he looked as though he had aged 20 years.

It was a sad sight and I felt my emotions welling up inside. Before I knew what was happening， I fell upon my dad with hugs and kisses， and for the first time in my life I said， “I love you， Dad！” He seemed a little taken aback， but awkwardly told me he loved me， too.

But the tidal wave of emotion didnt stop there as I fell upon my mother in the same fashion， expressing my love for her， too. Then I gently pulled away， expecting some kind of reciprocation. But it never came. Instead， she appeared frozen in horror. Hurt and humiliated， I struggled to understand this rejection. What was wrong with me？ What was wrong with her？

The holiday was over all too quickly. When I was back at work once again， I overheard a workmate on a personal phone call to her mother. At the end of it she said， “I love you， Mum.” As simple as that. Declarations of love were clearly effortless in her family. Why wasnt it like that in mine？ Tears welling up， I ran to the toilets， where I cried so hard I thought my heart would break. This wasnt right！ Something had to be done about this love situation once and for all.

My opportunity came the next Sunday during my weekly phone call to my mother. After we had dispensed with our usual pleasantries and updates， I took a deep breath and asked， “Do you love me， Mum？” After a short hesitation， she replied brusquely， “You know I love you. Dont be silly.”

“Do I？ I dont remember ever hearing it from you.”

“Well， we never said things like that in my family.”

“Well， I want it to be said in ours. From now on I want to end our conversations with ‘I love you. And that goes for Dad， too.”

My mother reluctantly agreed， and for the first time our telephone conversation ended with， “I love you， Mum，”and she replied， “I love you， too.” Within a short time， “I love you” became easy to say， until it was very natural and we couldnt consider saying goodbye without it. Birthday and Christmas cards went from silly to sentimental， and when Mum bought Dad a Christmas card that year with the words “I love you！” spelt out in holly， I almost cried.

In the meantime， Dad had bravely completed his cancer treatments and， twelve months after being diagnosed， thankfully went into remission. A year later the lymphoma flared up again， but once more he valiantly fought it off.

Unfortunately， the stress and worry had taken its toll on my mother， and in May 2000 she was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. I was told that only five percent of patients survive.

Just five months after being diagnosed， Mum was admitted to hospital. It was a few days before I was due to fly out for another visit. Her condition was serious but not critical， and I phoned every morning to check on her. One morning when I rang， she sounded in good spirits， but that evening my instincts told me I needed to ring again.

My worst fear was confirmed when a nurse answered the phone and regretfully informed me that my mothers condition had rapidly deteriorated. She wasnt expected to make it through the night.

Knowing I couldnt get a flight in time， I asked the nurse to put the phone next to my mothers ear so I could talk to her.“Shes barely conscious，” the nurse replied. “Its unlikely shell hear you.” But I didnt care. I wanted to do it anyway.

Once shed placed the phone by my mothers ear， I started sobbing and telling Mum over and over again that I loved her， hoping she could hear. At first， all I could hear from the other end was “Hmmmm” —but then， like a miracle， with a deep sigh she said， “Love you…love you， darling.” It was the last thing she said before drifting into unconsciousness. She never spoke again. My mother died at four oclock the next morning， with my father by her side.

Although I was devastated by her death， the startling part was how well I coped. Of course， losing a parent is excruciatingly painful and I shed many tears， but receiving those lovely last words made it much more bearable. I had closure in the best possible way.

Slowly， Dad has now adapted to living alone for the first time in his life. And， Now theres just the two of us， were closer than ever.

Then last year， Dad was diagnosed with cancer again. This time its skin cancer， and to date he has been through two courses of radiotherapy. I dont know whether Dad will win this latest battle. At 79， hes not as strong as he once was， but hes still as determined as ever to go down fighting. But there is one thing I do know： whatever happens， whatever the future holds—for Dad and for me—our last words to each other will be “I love you.” Of that Im certain.

傻氣的生日卡在我们家很常见。而表达爱意的感性卡片则受到轻视，并对此感到有点难为情。此刻回想过去，我不记得我们曾说过“我爱你”三个字。

在我还不到29岁时，我爸爸退休了，爸妈从澳大利亚的维多利亚市搬到了昆士兰。我是他们唯一的孩子，他们竟然搬到离我如此遥远的地方生活，我的朋友们对此都感到惊讶。我只是耸耸肩，完全不感到担忧——反而把这当成是个可以到温暖的地方度假的机会。

但在他们退休六个月后，我母亲打电话来说有个坏消息：爸爸得了癌症。“但不要担心，”她说。那是淋巴癌，医生跟她说那是最容易治愈的一种癌症。经过化疗，他将会在几个月后完全恢复健康。然而，两个月后，我到昆士兰看望他们时，父亲的容貌变化让我感到震惊。他很虚弱，很瘦，因化疗而掉光了头发。虽然他只有65岁，但他看起来比实际年龄老了20岁。

看到这让人伤心的一幕，百般滋味涌上了心头。我还没了解清楚情况就扑到他身上拥抱他、亲吻他，并第一次说出：“我爱你，爸爸！”他似乎有点吃惊，但他还是略显尴尬地说他也爱我。

激动的情绪并没有收敛，我以同样的方式扑向母亲，同样向她表达了爱意。然后，我慢慢地松开怀抱，期待着她的回应。但她没有任何回应。相反的，她好像笼罩在恐惧之中。我感到伤心、委屈，难以理解这般抗拒的反应。我做错了什么？她怎么了？

转眼间，假期就结束了。我回去上班时，无意中听到一位同事给她母亲打电话。她最后说：“我爱你。妈妈。”就那么简单随意。在她家里，互诉爱意显然是一件轻松的事儿。为什么我家不能这样呢？我顿时热泪盈眶，跑到卫生间痛哭一场，感觉心都要碎了。这不正常！我要彻底改变这个关于爱的问题。

我的机会来了，下周日，我和母亲进行每周一次的通话。我们一阵寒暄并彼此说了近况后，我深呼吸，问道：“你爱我吗，妈妈？”一阵短暂的迟疑后，她粗声说道：“你知道我爱你的。别犯傻了。”

“我怎么会知道呢？我不记得你有对我说过。”

“哎，在我家，我们从来没有说过这样的话。”

“但我希望在我们家能听到这句话。从现在起，我希望我们聊天结束时能对彼此说‘我爱你。跟爸爸也一样。”

我母亲勉强同意了，那是我第一次在我们通话最后说“我爱你，妈妈，”她回应：“我也爱你。”在短时间内，“我爱你”变得容易说出口了，后来说得很自然了，我们每次说再见都要说这句话。生日卡和圣诞卡也不再乏味，变得充满情感。当我看到妈妈在给爸爸的圣诞卡上用冬青叶拼写出“我爱你！”时，我几乎要哭出来了。

同时，爸爸勇敢地完成了癌症治疗，确诊一年后，让人欣慰的是，病情得以缓解。又过了一年，淋巴癌复发，但他再次勇敢地战胜了它。

不幸的是，压力和担忧击垮了母亲，2000年5月，她被诊断出患有胰腺癌。我得知只有百分之五的病人可以治愈。

确诊五个月后，妈妈被送往医院。几天后，我才能休假去看望她。她的情况很严重，但仍有希望治愈，我每天早上打电话去了解她的情况。一天早上，我在电话中听出她精神不错，但那天晚上，我的直觉告诉我要再给她打个电话。

我最担心的事情发生了，在电话中，护士遗憾地告知我，母亲的病情急剧恶化。她可能熬不过那个晚上。

我知道自己赶不及坐飞机到那边，于是让护士把手机放到母亲耳边，让我跟她说说话。“她几乎没有了意识，”护士回答道。“她不太可能听到你说话。”但我不在乎，我就是想跟她说话。

她把电话放在母亲耳边后，我就开始边抽泣边不停地对她说我爱她，希望她能听见。最初，我只能听到电话那头“嗯嗯”的声音，但后来，就像奇迹一般，她深深叹了一口气说：“爱你……爱你，亲爱的。”这是她陷入昏迷前说的最后一句话。她再也没有说过话了。我母亲在第二天清晨四点去世了，我父亲陪在她身边。

我对她的去世感到万分难过，但让我吃惊的是我的处理方式十分恰当。当然，失去母亲让我极度痛苦，流了很多眼泪，但最后听到充满爱意的话语让我心里好受了一点。我以最好的方式作了道别。

渐渐地，爸爸现在适应了有生以来的第一次独自生活。现在我们家只有我们俩人了，我们变得更亲密。

去年，爸爸再次被诊断出患癌。这次是皮肤癌，目前，他已做过两次放射治疗。我不知道爸爸能否在最新的这场战争中胜出。他79岁了，不再像从前一样强壮，但他仍然同样坚决地坚持战斗。但我确信的是：不管发生什么事，不管我们的将来如何，爸爸和我对对方说的最后一句话一定是“我爱你”。我对此深信不疑。