The Weight of Honor

Old Wang held his heavy "Annual Outstanding Employee" medal, his heart filled with mixed feelings. The medal was substantial, its metal cold to the touch, and on its face, a line of gilded lettering shone dazzlingly under the lights. In the office, his colleagues cast envious glances his way, showering him with compliments. Old Wang just smiled awkwardly, as if the medal was not a symbol of glory but a kind of heavy shackle.

Old Wang was a senior programmer at a large tech company, working overtime until late at night, staring at the computer screen and coding. Life was monotonous and dull. For the sake of this "Annual Outstanding" award, he hadn't left the company before ten o'clock at night for two consecutive months. He missed dinners with his family, skipped his son's school parent-teacher meeting, and even having a word with his wife became a luxury.

But, the medal had come. Heavy, cold.

At the award ceremony, the leader praised Old Wang's dedication with great enthusiasm, calling on everyone to learn from him. Old Wang clapped mechanically in the audience, feeling like a product placed on display rather than a person. He clearly remembered that day his five-year-old son sent him a video call, which he quickly ended after a few words because he had to rush back to deal with an urgent bug.

He returned to his workstation and carefully placed the medal on the corner of his desk, before continuing to work overtime. He tried to complete his work for the day on the computer, but he felt that the medal was like a giant monitor, staring at him.

His colleague, Little Zhang, from the next cubicle, leaned over, his tone tinged with sourness: "Old Wang, you're amazing! How heavy is that medal? Must be at least half a pound, right?"

"Yeah, it's pretty heavy," Old Wang responded perfunctorily.

"Your son must be thrilled when he sees it," Little Zhang added.

"Heh heh," Old Wang chuckled dryly. He remembered helping his son with math a few days ago, when his son asked him why other dads had time to be with their kids, but he was always working. At that time, he just sighed without answering.

Old Wang began to doubt the meaning of this medal. It was like a symbol, proving that he had been exploited for his surplus value. It seemed to be an affirmation of his dedication, but at the same time, it reminded him that he had given far more than he had received.

At ten o'clock that night, Old Wang dragged his tired body home. His son was already asleep, and his wife had heated up his dinner, which was on the table. He turned on the TV, watching the news casually, but his mind was completely elsewhere.

He picked up his son’s award certificate, which was placed on the hall table. It was a “Little Painting Prodigy” award from kindergarten. Old Wang gently touched the paper, which was covered with childish strokes and wobbly writing. Suddenly, he remembered his son's video call yesterday, where he cried and said, "Dad, your award must be more amazing than mine. Mine's not worth much. Dad, are you the most amazing dad?"

A wave of bitterness washed over Old Wang. He felt like an actor, wearing a gorgeous costume, but performing on an empty stage.

Old Wang got up and walked to the table, picking up the cold medal. The metal reflected light, stinging his eyes. Suddenly, it felt like a huge rock, weighing him down so much he couldn't breathe.

He went to the balcony, where the night wind brought the chill of winter. He held the medal above his head and then threw it down to the ground below. The medal arced through the air and landed on the grass with a thud. The sound wasn't loud, but it seemed to strike at Old Wang's heart.

The next day, when Old Wang arrived at the company, his colleagues were all talking about it.

"Old Wang, where's your medal?" Little Zhang asked curiously.

Old Wang smiled, pretending to be relaxed, "I accidentally lost it yesterday. It probably got blown away by the wind."

"Oh, what a pity, such a big medal."

Old Wang didn't say anything. He walked to his workstation. He opened his computer and started working.

Just then, a commotion came from the office doorway. The cleaning lady was holding a warped metal medal, which had been battered, and asked in confusion, "Whose is this? Who threw such a big piece of metal junk downstairs?"

Old Wang continued typing on his keyboard with a blank face, as if it had nothing to do with him.

He knew that the medal had never truly belonged to him. What belonged to him were only the daily overtime, the endless bugs, and the KPIs that could never be met. He even felt that the misshapen medal lying on the grass was more real than the one that had been on his desk yesterday.