A father’s heist for hope against medical bills ends in prison—and tragedy

Desperate father stole to fund his son's leukaemia treatment, but a four-year sentence meant he missed the child’s final breath.

Yu Haibo, born to farming parents in China’s northeastern province of Jilin, left school at 13, became a father at 19, and, by 28, stopped being one. When nine-year-old Jiayue died of leukaemia, Yu was serving his four-year sentence for stealing rural electricity transformers, an act that raised a mere 30,000 yuan [4,186.7 U.S. dollars] for hospital bills but was judged “sabotage of power facilities”. In June 2023, prison officials granted him a temporary release so he could sit at his son’s bedside; the boy died a month later.

China Central Television, the state broadcaster, aired Yu’s story, including that final visit, in October 2024. The broadcast unleashed a wave of sympathy across social media, where users questioned why desperation seemed to be on trial.

The following report was published on June 15 on the WeChat blog of Jiupai News, a popular digital news platform affiliated with the Yangtze River Daily, a state-run newspaper based in Wuhan.

—Yuxuan Jia

China Central Television aired Yu’s final meeting with his son.

父亲为救患病儿子偷变压器卖了3万元，获刑4年，服刑期间儿子去世：骨灰洒在监狱旁，想离爸爸近一点

Father Stole Transformers to Save Sick Son, Was Jailed. The Boy Died Before His Release, His ashes were scattered near the prison “to stay close to Dad”

On June 15, Father’s Day, Yu Haibo would visit the Jingyuetan National Forest Park in Changchun, Jilin. He wanted to remember his son and ring his own father. He had never celebrated Father’s Day before, a holiday that has become a lifelong regret.

Yu became a father at nineteen. By twenty-eight, he was no longer one.

When his boy passed away, Yu was behind bars—imprisoned for four years for stealing electrical transformers to fund his son Yu Jiayue’s leukaemia treatment. The act brought in thirty thousand yuan [4,186.7 U.S. dollars] and a prison sentence for sabotaging power infrastructure. The Jilin Prison Authority granted a brief release so Yu could sit by Jiayue’s bedside. A month later, the child died.

His family kept the news close until a journalist, unaware of the silence, said too much. “My son’s still alive!” Yu shouted.

Later, Yu’s father told him Jiayue had been cremated, his ashes scattered at Jingyuetan, just beyond the walls of Yu’s confinement. Yu’s father also shared the boy’s final words, “Don't think of me when you are free. When you miss me, go to Jingyuetan. I’ll always be there.”

Speaking with Jiupai News, Yu repeatedly choked up. Six months after his release, he remains jobless and buried in debt. He started a social media account to show concerned followers he is slowly rebuilding his life, yet he hesitates to share Jiayue’s story. “If I said I didn’t miss him, I’d be lying,” he said, “I pretend I’m strong. But inside, I’m shattered.”

Yu Haibo

“I don’t want to think too much about the past.”

Yu Haibo’s short videos mostly capture snippets of his daily life with family—shots of him at the stove, stirring Northeastern dishes. The footage feels aimless, the themes disjointed. His younger brother handles filming and editing, picking up skills as he goes. Many followers discovered Yu through old news coverage, leaving supportive comments under his posts—words of encouragement, sympathy for what he has endured.

“Finding work after prison has been tough,” Yu told Jiupai News. He avoids bringing up his conviction. Still, employers ghost him after background checks. “They call, ask a few questions, then never call back.” He is barred from food delivery and ride-hailing jobs, left with gig jobs that are just enough to cover living costs.

At his brother’s urging, he tried making videos and livestreams. But on camera, his voice faltered. Early on, his brother recalls, he would freeze before the camera. “He could spend an hour trying to memorise a few lines,” his brother said. To push past his fear, Yu forced himself to go live, mumbling to himself or chatting with viewers, chipping away at the anxiety.

But the question lingers: “What is there to film?” Yu scrolled through other accounts, those whose tragedies also made the news. Their feeds are filled with near-daily updates. By comparison, his own life feels inert. “Too uneventful,” he said. In half a year, he’s managed just twenty-five short clips.

The tension still clings to him. Before our interview, he asked for a cigarette break. On the sofa, he kept straightening his back, palms pressed stiffly to his knees.

He confessed that he wanted the attention because it might help pay the bills. Still, he draws a line. The boy’s story stays buried. The memories are quicksand; he won’t let them pull him under again.

After being released from prison, Yu Haibo went to Jingyuetan to pay his respects.

“Why did it have to be him?”

Yu Haibo grew up in Songyuan, Jilin, the son of farmers who worked the land. At thirteen, he dropped out of school and left for Changchun to make a living. He trained as a cook, starting out in restaurant kitchens before finding work as a welder at an auto factory. The job required eight-hour shifts and paid four to five thousand yuan a month.

When his son was born in 2014, Yu consulted a fortune-teller to choose a name. Several options were offered, but one caught him immediately: Jiayue. “People said it sounded like a girl’s name,” Yu said. “But to me, it was just beautiful.”

After Jiayue’s birth, Yu’s wife stayed at home to raise him. To make ends meet, Yu picked up weekend shifts in restaurant kitchens. Time with his son was scarce, but when he was on night shifts, he’d always carve out an afternoon break to take the boy outside.

Then he noticed something off. Jiayue stumbled often, his legs weak beneath him, his energy flickering out too soon. He kept asking to be carried. “I kept telling him, you’ve got to walk on your own,” Yu recalled. “You can’t always lean on me.”

The crisis hit when Jiayue turned three. A fall left a dark, swollen bruise on his leg. Instead of healing, it deepened. Alarmed, Yu took him to the hospital. Then tests revealed the diagnosis: acute lymphoblastic leukaemia.

Yu’s voice quivered. “I grew up in the countryside. Barely any schooling. I kept thinking—why him? He was so little. He hadn’t even tasted the joys and sorrows of life yet.”

The family sold what they could and went south to a hospital in Tianjin, beginning a gruelling treatment regimen. Many told Yu his son would not make it, but he refused to give up. “I didn’t want to have regrets,” he said. “Whatever it took, I’d sell everything to save him.”

They rented a room near the hospital for a thousand a month. Yu took 4 months off work to stay by Jiayue’s side, watching as chemotherapy consumed his small body.

During chemotherapy, Jiayue could manage only the softest, most flavourless food. Rice, chicken, and greens—lightly salted, boiled until they collapsed, then softened further in a pressure cooker. Even then, Jiayue would take a bite, then immediately gag and spit it back out.

Savings vanished quickly. Yu returned to Changchun, working at the auto factory while hustling for side gigs from the labour market—handing out flyers, tearing down drywall, hauling freight. Nights were spent skewering kebabs at street stalls.

On the worst days, Yu had only two, maybe three hours of rest—but lay awake anyway, his mind worrying about money. Jiayue missed him fiercely, calling often, but Yu was always too buried in labour to pick up. When he did answer, he’d set the phone down beside him as he worked, their conversations drowned in the clang of metal and street noise.

Every few months, Yu would scrape together ten, twenty thousand yuan and make the trip back to Tianjin. But against mounting medical bills, it was a drop in the bucket. He sold their home and took out all kinds of loans. “There were times when I couldn’t even come up with five hundred yuan,” he said.

Then, fortunately, after more than two years of treatment, Jiayue’s condition stabilised. He could eat again. With Tianjin’s costs too steep, they returned to Changchun, travelling south only for major checkups. The family moved in with Yu’s in-laws. Jiayue even started kindergarten. He loved playing with kids his own age.

“There was nothing else I could do.”

Back in kindergarten, surrounded by other people, Jiayue started running fevers constantly. Within months, he was confined to home again. Seeing his son's disappointment, Yu Haibo tried to comfort him: “Tell me what you want to eat, Daddy will cook it. Whatever toys you want, Daddy will buy them—we’ll play together.”

Those became their rare, bright hours. Jiayue would stay up until 11 or midnight, waiting for his father to come home before going to sleep. He loved playing PUBG: Battlegrounds, perched on Yu’s lap, steering him through the game world. “He was good at it,” Yu said, “I never really got the hang of those games.”

After a full day's work, exhaustion was inevitable. His focus would flicker during their gaming sessions, but Jiayue was so happy, he knew he had to spend time with him.

Jiayue rarely called him “Dad,” preferring to use his full name, Yu Haibo, like they were brothers. He said Yu looked handsome, like Ultraman; that he wanted to grow up to be just like Yu Haibo; that he dreamed of becoming a police officer to protect Yu Haibo.

Time passed quickly. In April 2021, the Tianjin hospital called, urging Yu to bring Jiayue back for a full round of tests that would cost tens of thousands. With businesses shuttered during pandemic restrictions, Yu lost all income sources. Family savings dried up, and loans became impossible. The tens of thousands of yuan needed never came.

That’s when an old friend called with a money-making scheme. “He used to collect scrap,” Yu recalled. “Said there was good money in the copper inside transformers.” Yu wrestled with the decision for days. “I didn’t realise it was illegal,” he said. “But the tests were due in July. There was nothing else I could do.”

They stole over twenty transformers from rural areas, making less than 30,000 yuan [4,186.7 U.S. dollars]. When police came knocking in June, Yu was “terrified.” As reported by the law and society-focused channel of the CCTV (China Central Television) Network, he was sentenced to 4 years for sabotage of power facilities.

The first prison visit came in January 2023. Yu’s parents, his brother, his wife, and Jiayue stood on the other side of the glass. The boy hid behind his grandmother, refusing to meet his father’s eyes. Still, Yu saw it all: the tumour bulging from his son’s head, the distorted roundness of his son’s face from steroids.

When his family revealed Jiayue's new diagnosis, recurrent non-Hodgkin lymphoblastic lymphoma, Yu dropped to his knees. “Sell everything,” he wept. “I have to save him.”

After that, prison became unbearable. Yu stopped working. Stopped eating. He fixated on Jiayue’s condition outside the walls. When anyone tried to talk to him, he responded with a question: Can Jiayue be cured?

In one call to his father, he broke completely. “I don’t care,” he said. “Sell our house. Sell our land. Just save my boy. He is my world.”

Prison guards and fellow inmates rallied around him, eventually raising over 70,000 yuan for Jiayue’s treatment. “Society helped so much,” Yu said. “But the medical costs kept growing. My brother went deep into debt, too.”

“Daddy misses you every day.”

Five months later, Jiayue’s condition took a sharp turn. Yu Haibo’s wife went to the prison pleading for one last visit. After repeated appeals, in June 2023, Yu was granted a temporary release to see his son at the hospital.

The moment Yu stepped into the ward, he broke. Jiayue lay pale and shrunken, yet his first words were: “Did you eat breakfast? What did you have?” He ordered takeout for his father—braised pork ribs with beans and a portion of stewed pork knuckle.

For the entire thirty-minute visit, Yu couldn’t stop crying. He lifted Jiayue’s hand to his face, but the small fingers slipped away, too weak to stay. Jiayue moaned in pain, the sounds replacing speech. As Yu stood to leave, the boy grew anxious. “The food’s getting cold,” he said. “And Dad has to go.” Yu never got to eat that meal.

Yu Haibo and Jiayue saw each other for the last time. Photo: CCTV Society and Law Channel

A month later, Jiayue passed away. No one told Yu Haibo.

During family visits, his parents and brother kept the story intact: Jiayue was still in the hospital, getting better every day. “I knew something was wrong,” said Yu, “but they wouldn’t talk because they were afraid I might do something desperate in here.”

In November, a journalist, interviewing him in prison, asked without warning: “How did you feel when you heard your son had passed away?”

“My boy’s still alive!” Yu shouted, his voice cracking. The interview ended abruptly as he collapsed, inconsolable.

At their next meeting, Yu’s father finally told him: Jiayue's ashes had been scattered in Jingyuetan, near the prison walls, for he wanted to stay close to Yu. Yu’s father passed along the boy’s final message: “Don’t think of me when you are free. When you miss me, go to Jingyuetan. I’ll always be there.”

From his cell, Yu wrote Jiayue a letter: “Daddy misses you every day. How I long to hear you call me ‘Yu Haibo’ again instead of ‘Dad.’ That voice was the sweetest sound I’ve ever known.”

Yu was released in November 2024, his sentence reduced by seven months. Now, when he’s in Changchun, he walks through Jingyuetan every two weeks. Sometimes he dreams of Jiayue—small hands patting his cheeks, inviting him to play. The visions vanish quickly. He wakes with only fragments—and tears he cannot stop.