My childhood

Tuan, over thirty years old, is a civil servant at a government agency. His job is stable, and his family life, while not overly affluent, is comfortable and warm. His wife is a teacher, kind and capable. They have two children, a son and a daughter. Their life seems simple, but it requires much quiet effort. Tuan is not only a devoted husband but also an exemplary father – a quality not everyone understands, or perhaps even overlooks.

My childhood

Illustration: LE NGOC DUY

At work, Tuan sometimes clearly felt the disapproving glances and whispered comments when he refused to attend after-work gatherings, didn't take on extra work, or missed opportunities for promotion because he was "busy taking care of his children." Some people clicked their tongues: "Tuan is a family man, only concerned with his wife and children." Others hinted: "If a father is too soft-hearted, his children will become spoiled later." But he only smiled silently. Because some values don't need to be proven with words. He believed that a child's childhood, once missed, cannot be bought back even with all the gold in the world. This wasn't just a philosophy of life, but a firm belief that had taken root since his childhood.

Back then, Tuan grew up in a large family. His father was a soldier, often away from home. His mother worked tirelessly selling goods, struggling to make ends meet. He didn't blame his father, but he never forgot the feeling of emptiness he experienced each time he learned to ride a bicycle alone or went to parent-teacher meetings without anyone to accompany him. Those small moments were etched into his memory like silent wounds, not bleeding but lingering throughout his life. Tuan once vowed that if he had children, he wouldn't let them be lonely in their childhood. He would be present, not just physically, but with his heart and the time he would spend with them.

One night, his eldest son developed a fever. Tuan had just finished a report and, without even changing his shirt, rushed into the room. The boy was wheezing, his forehead burning hot. His wife's eyes welled up with tears. All night, Tuan held his son in his arms, comforting him and monitoring his temperature. When dawn broke, the fever subsided, and the boy fell asleep in his arms. Tuan sat there, his shirt soaked with his son's sweat, his hair disheveled, his eyes dark with exhaustion, but his heart felt light. "I'm a father now. I'm really a father," he thought.

From then on, every evening, he dedicated time to reading to his child. Every morning, he prepared breakfast and took his child to school. In his free time, he taught his child to wash dishes and clean the house. These were small things, but Tuan believed they were the way to sow the seeds of character. There's an old saying: "Raising a child without teaching them is the father's fault." Teaching isn't just about words, but also about silent presence. Not through corporal punishment or shouting, but through setting a good example every day.

Once, his company expanded its departments and needed a new project leader. Tuan had the necessary skills, experience, and was highly respected. However, the position required frequent business trips, sometimes leaving home for weeks at a time. His wife supported him, urging him to confidently accept the offer. But that night, when he heard his daughter whisper, "Dad, tell me the rest of the story," and his son tug at his sleeve, asking, "If you go on business trips, who will pick me up from school?", Tuan suddenly felt a lump in his throat.

He refused the position. People were surprised. Some felt sorry for him. But others quietly looked at him with different eyes—a deeper, more respectful gaze.

One late afternoon at the end of the year, as the two children busily made greeting cards for their parents, Tuan's daughter smiled brightly and handed him a piece of paper: "Dad, I drew you as a superhero, always by my side." Tuan fell silent. Not because the card was beautiful, but because of the shaky, smudged handwriting: "Dad is my best friend."

He suddenly remembered a line from Tran Tien's song "My Mother": "Childhood is like a soft pillow, a soft pillow for old age to rest its face on." A childhood nurtured by love, presence, and protection is the most precious gift he can leave to his children – like a soft pillow supporting their lives.

Years later, as his children grew up and left their parents' embrace, Tuan believed that these beautiful memories would become a foundation for their future. The times they cleaned the yard together, the evenings they read together, the mornings he tied his daughter's hair, or the gentle look in his son's eyes when he stumbled... these would be a silent but enduring treasure. Some people use childhood to heal their lives. Others dedicate their entire lives to healing their childhood. Tuan didn't want to do both. He chose only one thing: to ensure his children had a childhood that didn't need healing.

Under the shade of the old banyan tree, as evening fell, Tuan sat quietly watching his two children running and playing, their shirts stained with dirt and sand, their smiles radiant in the late afternoon sun. He smiled. In that distant and gentle gaze, there was an entire lifetime silently resting upon his children's childhood.

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