At the age of 3, I held onto my lollipop tightly, firmly believing it was the most important thing.

At the age of 5, I spent the entire afternoon catching that dragonfly, and at that moment, it seemed like the most important thing.

At the age of 7, I looked at the certificate in my deskmate's hand with envy, thinking that it might be the most important thing.

At the age of 9, lying under the shade of a tree, with the dappled sunlight on my face, a leisurely summer vacation was so important to me.

At the age of 13, I realized that the admission letter from a key high school was very important to my life.

At the age of 16, sitting in the classroom with a gentle breeze passing through, I was lost in thought, staring at the ponytail of a girl in the front row, suddenly feeling that continuing like this would be quite nice.

At the age of 18, I studied day and night, praying and making wishes, just for a university admission letter.

At the age of 22, I bid farewell to campus and stepped into the so-called society, and getting a job became the most important thing.

At the age of 24, I had my wedding. I looked at the guests and my bride; she was certainly not the girl I loved at 16. I felt a bit regretful, but at that moment, my bride became the most important person to me.

At the age of 25, I drank and boasted with my buddies, in a carefree age, only feeling that face was the most important.

At the age of 26, I anxiously waited outside the delivery room. The sound of crying broke the silence, and I knew something more important had arrived.

At the age of 33, overwhelmed by mortgage and car loans, I felt that money was incredibly important.

At the age of 38, my once strong-willed father began to seek my opinion. In that moment, I suddenly realized that he had finally grown old.

Still at the age of 38, my mother no longer scolded me, but instead nagged me tirelessly, with a hint of caution. I knew she would also grow old.

Once again, at the age of 38, my son no longer clung to me; he had his own life with companions. I knew that from then on, he would only drift further away from me.

I realized that time might be the most important thing in this world.

At the age of 40, looking at the messy health check-up report, I finally realized that I never felt important.

At the age of 45, having spent half my life in a daze, while slouching at my desk with a beer belly, I recalled my youthful dreams and never felt that dreams were so important.

At the age of 50, watching my son marry a pretty girl, I squinted to see my son on stage, unsure if the bride was the girl he loved at 16. Still, I felt that my son's happiness was more important than my own.

At the age of 55, I hurriedly followed my grandson, fearing he might fall. At that moment, I had never given my grandson lofty hopes; his safety and happiness were the most important.

At the age of 60, I buried my parents together. Having aged, I have come to terms with many things. I did not shed tears, only felt that my father's scolding and my mother's nagging were incredibly important at that moment.

At the age of 70, my wife was the first to leave. My son and daughter-in-law were successful in their careers, and my grandson was studying at a university far away. I could only wander aimlessly on the streets, feeling inexplicably that my wife was much more important than the elderly ladies doing square dancing.

At the age of 75, in the hospital, when the doctor asked me to step out and left my son alone, I understood that time was running out. In the meantime, I called my grandson. When the call connected, I simply said, 'Grandpa misses you, come visit when you have time.' The doctor reassured me that my condition wasn't serious. I smiled and told the doctor that there are no big problems in life; just living it is the most important.

At the age of 76, my grandson came back to see me. Letting him see me in such a weak state felt a bit awkward for me. My son and daughter-in-law stood by the bed, crying uncontrollably. I had no energy to think about what was most important; I only wanted to keep things simple after I was gone. Just then, a gust of wind blew in, blurring my vision. When I opened my eyes, I saw my parents holding hands, wearing the smiles I knew so well, looking young again, with open arms signaling to me. I missed them so much that I jumped out of bed without hesitation and ran towards them. As I ran, I transformed into my 60-year-old self, then 50, 40, 30, until I became 3 again. They could finally hold me again and turned to leave with me. I looked back at my son, daughter-in-law, and grandson; they were holding my 76-year-old self, crying loudly. Though I felt reluctant, it was okay; I knew they could still live well.

So, what is the most important?

Everything is important, but not necessarily indispensable. What was once considered the most important will eventually be lost, and regret is always a part of life.