Twenty years ago, you taught me how to code; twenty years later, I teach you how to survive.

That year, I just started my job, the team leader's last name was Wu, from Northeast China.
He taught me how to write my first line of C++, and I got thirteen compilation errors; he stood in front of my screen thirteen times.
Later, the company parachuted in a VP to cut our project.
Wu, the team leader, pounded the table with the VP in the conference room, saying this project was built from scratch by him.
The VP said you've led it for a few years, but you're no longer worth that now.
Wu took off his ID badge and placed it on the table, saying then I’ll leave, let them keep it.
That day, he only took a cardboard box, inside of which was a tattered TCP/IP detailed guide and an enameled mug.
I stood at the company entrance watching him get into the car; he didn’t look back.
Later, I switched to another unicorn startup, leading a team, with core code all from what Wu taught back then.
And then the company was acquired, I was laid off.
That day, I stood at the building’s entrance, holding a cardboard box with my tattered "The Mythical Man-Month."
A young man chased after me and said, "Brother, the algorithm you taught me, I still use it now."
His name is Xiao Chen, an intern I mentored.
He handed me a note with a link to an offer and a sentence: "Come to me, I’ve grown up."
I sat in the car holding that box; outside the window was the never-fixed revolving door at the building entrance.
Suddenly, I remembered Wu getting into the car that year; it turns out he wasn’t not looking back.
It was I who didn’t catch up.