Fatherly love

On my wedding day, it was raining heavily. As my father saw me off to my husband's home, he didn't say anything but just sobbed uncontrollably. His tears mingled with the raindrops, falling incessantly. I had never seen him cry before. His cries pierced my heart. People say men don't cry easily because they're always strong and know how to suppress their emotions. When tears finally burst forth, it means the emotions must be immense, deeply ingrained! Clutching his hand tightly, I reassured him: "Don't worry, Dad, I'm fine," then hurried into the wedding car, leaving his frail, thin figure behind in the biting cold of winter.

The wedding car rolled slowly, as if reversing time. It was a time more than 20 years ago, when I was still a child, sheltered in my parents' arms. I remember, every time my older siblings bullied me, I would run to my father and cry uncontrollably in his arms. No matter the reason, even if I was wrong, my siblings would still be scolded. My father would explain that I was still young and didn't know any better. At those times, he would always come up with something to appease me. Sometimes he would fold a paper airplane. Sometimes he would mold a clay buffalo, or simply come up with a funny name to coax me: "My little jackfruit, be good!" / "My little tiger is the best..."

My childhood was spent surrounded by my father's loving care. I remember on the Mid-Autumn Festival, my father would often make us star-shaped lanterns with his own hands. I would happily join him in splitting bamboo strips, making lanterns, and watching him glue each star point onto the paper. He also cut out beautiful shapes of flowers, chickens, ducks, and other creatures from red and green paper. My star-shaped lantern was always the most beautiful, the brightest, and the most eye-catching on the night of the full moon in August, making all the other children in the neighborhood envious.

I remember that every second day of the Lunar New Year, my father would take me on his rickety bicycle to each house to wish us a happy new year. My older siblings wanted to go along, but my father said, "You're too young to go out and play by yourself." Then he would stroke my hair, lift me onto his bicycle, and we'd ride from house to house. I don't understand what it was about my father that made me so excited to go out and celebrate the New Year with him.

I remember, the day my older siblings went to school, I had no one to play with, so I cried and begged to go to school too. My father patted my head to comfort me, then took out my notebook and pen to teach me. He held my hand, guiding me through each letter with his first lessons: "O is round like a chicken egg / Ô wears a hat / Ơ has a beard..." He said, "Handwriting reflects character. Handwriting is like life. You'll understand this when you grow up. For now, just practice diligently, write neatly and carefully." Those early life lessons my father taught me gently seeped into my soul like that.

My father's hair is now streaked with gray. Every time we visit him, my children cling to him, not wanting to leave. He's still as affectionate as he used to be. He can spend the whole day acting as a patient for the children, examining them, and then readily let them draw on his hand, even if they smear ink on his face, he still smiles.

That smile was always so unusually warm. And now, no matter where I go or what I do, I always want to quickly return to my old home. Where my father and mother still wait for me day and night, watching over my every step. I also want to return to be the little girl my father used to be, to truly understand: "Throughout the world, no one is as good as a mother; no one suffers as much as a father bearing the burdens of life."

According to Hoang Anh ( Tuyen Quang online)

Fatherly love