My first time writing about my father.

It's not that I've forgotten, but perhaps it's the fatherly love—a love that is unspoken, silent, and full of compassion—that always leaves me flustered whenever I pick up a pen.

My father was the quietest man I ever knew. Throughout his life, he shouldered the burden of the family with his thin shoulders and hands calloused from hard work.

It is often said that no one can choose their fate. But for my father, it seemed that life's storms always came unexpectedly, fate constantly raining down on him a series of painful and cruel days.

My paternal grandparents passed away when my father was just a 15-year-old teenager, an age when he should have been attending school, carefree and without worries. Instead, he had to mature early, struggle to make a living, and take the place of his parents in raising and educating his three younger siblings, who were left alone and vulnerable in the world.

Then, as the children grew up, it seemed as though their father's life would finally end, leaving behind years of hardship and turning a new page, with a small family, a wife and children gathered around, but misfortune struck once again.

My mother – my father's unwavering support system – suddenly passed away in a traffic accident. Everything happened so quickly, so cruelly. At that time, I had only been in university for a week. My youngest sibling was just three years old; she wasn't old enough to understand that she had lost the most sacred maternal love forever, and that from now on she would no longer be able to call out "Mom" every day.

I vividly remember that tragic moment; my father quietly and calmly handled the funeral arrangements, but his thin shoulders seemed to slump under the immense burden. I inadvertently caught his worried gaze, filled with concern for the uncertain future of his five young children.

My father started working tirelessly day and night, regardless of rain or shine, hardship or long distances, never hesitating to earn money to provide for our education. Every month I would return home to visit my father and siblings a couple of times, and each time I came back to Saigon, I would tearfully hold the tuition money he gave me, unable to hold back my tears, because more than anyone else, I understood that those coins were soaked with my father's sweat and tears. But my father never once complained, always silently sacrificing for his children. He was kind and affectionate, but not good at expressing his love in words; he only knew that he always wanted to bear all the hardship himself so that his children could have a comfortable life. Throughout his life, he was accustomed to loss, sacrifice, and unspeakable pain. But he never let us lack love or lose faith in life.

There are nights when I suddenly wonder: How can a person endure so much and still be so gentle? How can a father who has lost almost everything still maintain the strength to be a pillar of support for his children?

To the world, my father may just be an ordinary man, without fame or glory… But to us, he is a monument. A monument not built of stone, but carved with love and silent sacrifices.

Now, my father is 77 years old, his hair is gray, his back is hunched, and his health is failing. Because of my work, I can't visit him as often as before. Every time I come home with gifts, he tells me, "Next time, don't buy any more, it's too expensive." I know that throughout his life, the greatest happiness for my father wasn't the gifts, but seeing his children grow up, be well-fed, and live decent lives.

And today, for the first time, I'm writing about my father, not just to thank him for giving birth to me and sacrificing everything so that I could be who I am today, but also to remind myself: Love your father while you still can.

Source: https://baobinhphuoc.com.vn/news/19/174478/lan-dau-viet-ve-cha