The Real Goodbye of Chinese New Year

Every year, we think the most unforgettable part of Chinese New Year is the reunion dinner.

The table full of dishes.

The laughter that fills the house.

The mahjong tiles clacking through the night.

Children running around with red packets in their hands.

We tell ourselves these are the moments that matter most.

But if you really pay attention, the hardest part of Chinese New Year isn’t the angpao you didn’t finish giving out. It isn’t the last slice of pineapple tart. It isn’t even the end of the reunion dinner.

It’s the moment when you sit inside the car, ready to leave.

The luggage is packed. The snacks are stuffed into plastic bags. Someone reminds you not to forget the mandarin oranges. The house is still messy; chairs are not stacked properly, empty 100 Plus bottles are on the table, chrysanthemum tea packets are thrown into the dustbin.

Just an hour ago, the living room was full of noise. Mahjong tiles are colliding. Relatives laughing. Kids chasing each other around the sofa. The house felt alive again.

And then suddenly, it’s time to go.

They walk you to the gate.

They always do.

You close the car door. The engine starts.

And they’re still standing there.

Waving.

“Drive carefully.”

“Be careful on the road.”

“Text when you reach.”

You might notice something; their wave is always longer than expected.

The car door is already shut, but they’re still waving.

The engine is running, but they haven’t gone inside.

The car starts moving slowly down the road, and they’re still there.

Even when you turn into another junction, if you glance at the rearview mirror, you can still see them.

Still watching.

As if by looking just a little longer, they can hold onto this reunion a few seconds more.

When the last car disappears, the house becomes quiet again.

The chairs remain slightly out of place. The floor still has snack crumbs. The dining table looks like it was abandoned mid-conversation. Sometimes they don’t clear everything immediately.

Because that little bit of mess is proof.

Proof that you were home.

Proof that the house was full.

Proof that for a few days, it wasn’t lonely.

After everyone leaves, the older ones slowly adjust their emotions. They go back inside. The space feels bigger again. Too big.

They sit down.

And they wait.

Wait for the message.

“Reached already.”

“Traffic was okay.”

“Don’t worry.”

Only after receiving that message can they truly relax.

Then life returns to normal. The house goes back to its usual rhythm. The days become quiet again.

They start counting down; maybe the next long weekend. The next public holiday. The next chance you might come home. The next Chinese New Year.

We always think we have plenty of time.

“Still young.”

“Next time can.”

“Next year, go back longer.”

But for them, every wave at the gate carries a different weight.

For us, it’s just another drive back to the city.

For them, it’s the beginning of another wait.

They are not just waving goodbye to you.

They are waving goodbye to the noise, the laughter, the warmth that filled their home. They are waving goodbye to the feeling of having everyone under one roof again.

What they look forward to isn’t just the festival itself.

It’s you.

It’s your voice in the house.

It’s your shoes at the door.

It’s your presence at the dining table.

If you can, don’t wait until only for the Chinese New Year to go home.

And if you truly cannot go back often, make that video call. Even a simple one. Let them see your face. Let them hear your voice. For them, that small screen can make the house feel a little less empty.

Because one day, there may be no one standing at the gate anymore.

And you will realise the most unforgettable part of the Chinese New Year was never the reunion dinner.

It was always the wave goodbye.