What is the most important thing in a person's life?

At three years old, I tightly held my lollipop, firmly believing that it was the most important thing.

At five years old, I spent an entire afternoon catching a dragonfly. At that moment, it seemed to be the most important.

At seven years old, I looked at the award certificate in my deskmate's hand, filled with envy and a little jealousy, thinking that maybe that was the most important.

At nine years old, lying under the shade of a tree, the dappled sunlight on my face, a leisurely summer vacation felt so important to me.

At thirteen, I realized that the acceptance letter from a key high school was very important to my life.

At sixteen, sitting in the classroom, a gentle breeze flowing through, staring absentmindedly at the girl’s ponytail in the front row, I suddenly felt that continuing like this might also be good.

At eighteen, I studied day and night, praying to gods and Buddha, all for a university acceptance letter.

At twenty-two, leaving campus, naïvely stepping into what is called society, a job became the most important thing.

At twenty-four, I had my wedding. I looked at the guests and my bride. Of course, she was not the girl I loved at sixteen. I felt a bit regretful, but at that moment, my bride became the most important person to me.

At twenty-five, I drank and boasted with my friends, in the age of innocence, only thinking that face was the most important.

At twenty-six, I anxiously waited outside the delivery room. The crying broke the silence. I knew that something more important was coming.

At thirty-three, overwhelmed by mortgage and car loan, I felt that money was too important.

At thirty-eight, my strong father began to seek my opinion. At that moment, I suddenly realized that he was finally old.

And still at thirty-eight, my mother no longer scolded me but nagged tirelessly, with a hint of caution. I knew she would also grow old.

Again at thirty-eight, my son no longer clung to me. He had his own life with friends. I knew that from then on, he would keep distancing himself from me.

That year, I suddenly realized that perhaps time itself is the most important thing in this world.

At forty, looking at the messy health report, I finally remembered that I had never thought I was important.

At forty-five, I spent half my life in a daze. While idling at my desk with a beer belly, recalling my youthful dreams, I never thought that dreams could be so important.

At fifty, watching my son walk into marriage with a good girl, I squinted at him on stage. I didn’t know if the bride was the girl he loved at sixteen, but I still felt that my son’s happiness was more important than my own.

At fifty-five, I was panting and following my grandson closely, afraid he would fall. At that moment, I never held grand ambitions for my grandson. As long as he was safe and happy, that was the most important.

At sixty, I buried my parents together. As I grew older, many things became clearer. I didn’t shed tears, only felt that my father’s scolding and my mother’s nagging were incredibly important at that moment.

At seventy, my wife passed away first. My son and daughter-in-law had successful careers, and my grandson was studying abroad. I could only wander the streets idly, feeling that my wife was much more important than the elderly women dancing in the square.

At seventy-five, in the hospital, when the doctor asked me to leave and stayed alone with my son, I realized that time was running out. I took this opportunity to call my grandson. I wanted to tell him that if he ever loved a girl at sixteen, he must hold on tight, just like holding the lollipop in my hand at three. After some thought, I felt it might be disrespectful to be so old-fashioned. When the call connected, I only said, “Grandpa misses you. Come see me when you have time.” The doctor reassured me that it wasn’t a big problem. I smiled and told the doctor that life has no big problems; actually, living day by day is the most important.

At seventy-six, my grandson came to see me. Seeing me so weak made him feel a bit awkward. My son and daughter-in-law stayed by my bed, crying uncontrollably. I had no energy left to think about what was most important. I only wanted the end to be simple. My son and daughter-in-law were not young anymore, and their bodies couldn’t take it. My grandson had just started working, and taking leave was difficult. I didn’t want to leave a bad impression on his boss.

Just then, a breeze blew from nowhere, blinding my eyes. I opened them. My parents were holding hands, with the most familiar smile on their faces. They looked young. They opened their arms, inviting me to hug them. I missed them so much. Without hesitation, I jumped out of bed and ran toward them. As I ran, I transformed into a sixty-year-old, a fifty-year-old, a forty-year-old, a thirty-year-old, until I became three years old. Finally, they could hold me again. I nodded to them, and they smiled and nodded back, turning to leave with me. I looked back at my son, daughter-in-law, and grandson. They were holding my seventy-six-year-old body, crying loudly. Though reluctant, it was okay. I knew they could still live well.

So, what is most important? Everything is important, but not necessarily indispensable.

Because what you once thought was most important will eventually be lost. Regret is always a part of life.