Top 20 Meaningful Short Stories for Writing on the Wall for Vietnam Teachers' Day, November 20th

As I write these words, perhaps my teacher is passionately teaching in the classroom. I know you may never read these lines, but I still want to express my deepest gratitude and respect for you, my second father, in this letter.

You are a simple teacher from a rural area, a teacher in the remote regions of Dong Nai. Many may think of Dong Nai as a wealthy province, but there are still poor rural areas like ours, aren't there? I write these lines during my lunch break at work, after I suddenly came across the article 'A Pen of Gratitude' in the Youth newspaper. The emotions are overwhelming, and I don't even know where to begin or how to express them. Although you didn’t give birth to me, you helped me realize the value of life, the worth of money, the importance of hard work, and you were the pillar that supported me as I started a new life after a bitter fall.

I grew up in a poor farming family, where poverty made me feel inferior and ashamed. From an early age, I was used to the lack of food and clothes, wearing old clothes while my friends wore fresh, neat outfits, using patched plastic sandals while they wore new Bitis shoes. I was accustomed to meals of rice with salt and boiled water spinach, while my friends had meat and fish with every meal. I was used to one part of the day going to school and the other working as a laborer just to fill my stomach.

My parents always encouraged me to study hard to escape poverty. So, I worked hard at school, determined to be better than my classmates despite my hardships. I felt immense happiness when I was class president for twelve years, achieving high results, proud of the certificates from my school and the education department recognizing my achievements as a “poor student who overcame hardship to excel.” When I finished high school and passed the university entrance exam, I cried like a child because I had achieved what seemed impossible, becoming a beacon of hope for my poor village. During those twelve years, you were always there, helping me consolidate my knowledge and prepare for university. When I left for university, you gave me not much besides heartfelt advice and a small amount of saved money as a gift. To me, that money was a symbol of your hard work, sleepless nights preparing lessons, and I couldn’t speak through the lump in my throat when I held it.

Life in Saigon was vastly different from the poor countryside, and I felt overwhelmed. It felt like people lived too fast, too urgently. I went to university, but like in the countryside, my days were divided between attending classes and working part-time. I had to save every penny just to make ends meet. During that time, I was always weak from hunger, and you were the only one who truly understood. The letters we exchanged made everything clear. You encouraged me to keep going, to pursue my dream of escaping poverty, saying that my dream was also your lifelong dream.

But in my final year of university, I succumbed to the temptations of money and fell into despair, making a mistake I deeply regret. I got involved in sports betting and online gaming, which led to debt. In a moment of weakness, I stole a phone and money from a friend in the dorm to spend it, and I was caught and expelled immediately. That moment of walking out of the university gates, the place I had dedicated over four years of my life to, will forever remain engraved in my mind as an unforgettable life lesson.

I became frantic, lost my direction, and despised anyone who tried to encourage me. I felt like it was pity, like they felt sorry for me, and that made me reject everyone. Once again, in my deepest pain and humiliation, you stood by my side. You became my companion, sharing with me and encouraging me. Little by little, you helped me let go of my shame and guided me towards a new path, difficult but realistic given my circumstances. Time passed, and I lived through the hardest moments of my life under your guidance. Now, having grown stronger, I’ve succeeded in completing a vocational degree and securing a stable job. I’m even more grateful to you. You were the one who guided me to choose vocational training, to find a job with a stable income, which allowed me to later pursue further studies.

Yes, I will follow your advice, I will work hard and study for my degree in the evening. I will succeed because I have faith and because you are always there for me. When I falter, when I make mistakes, everyone looks down on me, but you always show me love. You have awakened my self-respect and given me the right advice. I’m so happy now because my younger sister is now under your care as her teacher, and you teach her without charging a single cent. How could I ever repay you for your kindness? You live by the teachings of President Ho Chi Minh, an exemplary member of the Communist Party of Vietnam.

The other day, I was browsing online, looking through teaching and learning forums, and I came across some impressive math teaching software by a teacher named Nguyen Quoc Phong from Dinh Quan High School. I was deeply moved to realize that this person was none other than my beloved teacher. You, who started learning about computers late in life, have created such useful and practical teaching tools for the online community. It’s rare for anyone to achieve such things, especially at your age and in our poor rural area!

At that moment, tears welled up in my eyes again, but these weren’t tears of regret or shame about the past; they were tears of emotion and happiness. Teacher, if I were to write more about you, I would never stop, I would write forever because the bond between us is too strong, and there are so many special things to say.

I will stop here, but I will always remember your words: “In life, everything can be lost, but the future is still ahead. The longest life is not the one that lasts the longest, but the one who experiences life the most.” Yes, I will try, and you can rest assured!

At the age of 10, we had our first English lessons, not at school, but by cycling over 3 kilometers to the teacher’s house in the neighboring village. In his small, simple house by the windy dike, a teacher and four students eagerly tackled the basics of English. Back then, the lessons cost only 500 dong each, twelve years ago. We were just kids, and we didn’t even realize whether 500 dong was cheap or expensive for such lessons. He was a special teacher, in a special classroom, inside a special house. The house was a modest single room made entirely of cement. Even the tables and beds were made from cement. From afar, the house looked like a pigeon coop perched on the edge of the dike. The teacher wrote on a small blackboard hanging on the wall, and we sat on low cement platforms, cross-legged. We learned basic words like ‘hello’ and ‘goodbye,’ with the teacher carefully demonstrating each pronunciation, his mouth moving slowly as he guided us through the sounds.

I still remember the story he told us about faraway Russia, where he had once studied and where he fell in love with a young woman he eventually had to leave behind. He spoke to us about his youthful dreams in the snowy land, but there was a sense of loss and separation in his story. Now, here he was, in front of us… He lived a solitary and somewhat eccentric life, often squinting his eyes, gazing into some distant place. He had a peculiar smile—warm when facing us, but curiously ironic when he turned away. I found it interesting, and I loved to watch him smile.

Like other farmers, he grew rice and set up shrimp traps to make a living. Along the gentle slope of the dike, he set many traps. Whenever he caught some shrimp, he’d eat them or sell them, and any larger ones were placed in a cement tank to grow. Every day when we came for lessons, we’d play around the tank, splashing water and causing the shrimp to jump in all directions. The teacher would scold us in a kind and gentle way, and his reprimands never frightened us. So, each day, our mischievous play continued without fail.

He told us that our presence brought him great joy. He spoke passionately about the foreign language he had once fallen in love with. With us, he was busier, not only teaching but also trying to keep us out of trouble and ensure we learned well. After we finished studying with him, I would still often cycle past his house, always seeing his thin frame as he walked slowly along the dike, setting traps. A few times, I passed by, feeling reassured as I watched him move along the shore. Over time, memories, like waves, kept crashing, and before I knew it, I no longer saw him there. Today, like many of his past students, I sit here, recounting those distant memories. I remember him placing larger shrimp in the cement tank, hoping they would grow, looking like a fisherman waiting for a miracle. I always hoped that he had left that house, that village, and gone to his own place, where dreams were greater. Maybe the miracle of shrimp and fish would bring him back to the woman he had loved. I always wished for that because I knew that face, that smile, didn’t belong here, and shouldn’t stay here anymore.

900,000 dong. She nervously fingered the worn-out 10,000 dong notes, feeling a deep longing for a quiet place to cry. Finally, she had made it to university. The first person she wanted to tell wasn’t her father or mother, but her beloved teacher...

Her family was poor, with many siblings, and the village was too poor to even think about sending a child to college. Her parents shared the same doubts—too poor, and how could she possibly compete with others? The teacher, however, was the only one who believed in her, telling her she could do it. Her joy didn’t last long, as countless worries soon flooded her mind... For five long years, money worries buzzed around her like a swarm of bees. Then the teacher came, bringing her books and notebooks, things she imagined were lessons on life, along with a small package. He told her to open it only when things got tough. The package she received was a bundle of 10,000 dong notes, wrapped in two layers of old plastic. The notes, once crisp but now creased and faded, were the teacher’s savings. 900,000 dong. She continued to nervously play with the worn bills, craving a quiet corner to let out her tears. It had been two years since the teacher had come to visit her in Saigon, handing her the old notes with a hurried goodbye. After that, he moved to another job. Occasionally, she still received 10,000 dong from him—strangely, always when things seemed darkest for her… Two years passed, and she had never visited him. One afternoon, just after school, her mother called with the news: 'Teacher H. has passed away!' She could only stammer, asking 'How did he die?' and then collapsed as her mother’s voice trembled on the other end: 'He had been sick for a long time, but no one knew. When they took him to the hospital, the doctors discovered his organs had all failed, and before anyone could visit him, he...'. She abandoned everything and rushed to the bus station. Amidst the midday heat and the dizziness of motion sickness, she felt the teacher’s gentle presence beside her, pressing those familiar 10,000 dong notes into her hot hands…

Now, she noticed that the teacher had become pale, his once nimble hands were now gnarled. She suddenly snapped to her senses, tears streaming down her cheeks, her heart breaking as she cried out, 'Teacher, why didn’t you wait for me...?!' She had always believed that if she could turn those 10,000 dong notes into medicine, the teacher would live until she could return.

My childhood was not as complete as other children’s. I was born without ever meeting my paternal or maternal grandparents. At the age of six, my mother passed away due to a sudden illness. With many siblings and my father working far away, we had to rely on each other to navigate life. Despite the difficulties and hardships, my siblings and I became role models in our school for academic achievements. This was thanks to the teachings of our father and the dedication of our teachers. For me, no matter where life takes me, I will never forget my third-grade teacher, Ms. Lich, who became like a second mother and gave wings to my dreams from those early days.

Having moved from a poor village to the town, I was one of the poorest students in my class, especially since I was motherless. While the other children had brand-new clothes, fancy bags, and shoes, I only had one uniform set and an old winter jacket. But despite this, I was the top student in every subject. I wasn’t proud of my academic success, but I often felt embarrassed and self-conscious about my family’s poverty. I didn’t socialize much and kept to myself at the back of the class. Ms. Lich became my new homeroom teacher, replacing the previous one who had transferred. She had a gentle face, a slender figure, and a charming northern accent.

- Hello, everyone. I am Ms. Lich, your new homeroom teacher. I would be happy if you could treat me like a friend and share any difficulties you have, both in your studies and in life.

She walked around the class, talking to each student individually. I watched her closely, feeling nervous when she approached and asked about my family. I mumbled a shy answer, ashamed of our poverty. Then, she gently patted my head and smiled:

- I’ve seen your report card. You’re very talented. Keep it up. If you ever face difficulties, don’t hesitate to talk to me. She looked me straight in the eye, smiling warmly, a smile full of kindness and affection. From that moment, I knew I would grow close to her.

After Ms. Lich became our homeroom teacher, our class transformed. Once an average-performing class, we soon became the top-ranking class in the school. Her lessons were so engaging that we wished time would slow down. She didn’t teach rigidly from the textbook; her teaching method was flexible, and her passion made us all eager to learn. She knew the background of each student in the class. For those struggling, she would pair them with stronger students to help them catch up. The class became energized, and even the most rebellious students started to enjoy studying. If she ever missed class, they would rush to ask about her, and by the end of the day, they would lead the whole class to visit her when she was ill. Our class became united, and Ms. Lich was the 'fairy' who made this miracle happen.

During the county's neat handwriting contest, she chose me to represent our class and grade. I didn’t have the money to buy fancy notebooks, but my neat handwriting and clean presentation made my work look good. However, I felt embarrassed because the wrapping paper on my notebooks was old and torn. At the end of the school day, she called me aside and gently said: 'Bring your notebooks to my house this afternoon. We’ll 'fix' them together.'

At her house, I was surprised to see that it was as simple and small as mine. The only difference was… her house had fewer people. It turned out that she and her husband had no children. 'We couldn’t have children, so we decided to live together just the two of us,' she said, smiling sadly, almost as if she could read my thoughts.

She lovingly rewrapped my books and showed me possible exam questions. She encouraged me to study hard and aim for university, which she said was the only way to escape poverty. Then she asked about my family’s situation. When she learned I had been motherless from a young age, she paused for a moment and then suddenly hugged me: 'Consider me your mother if you want.' In her arms, I felt small, comforted, and close, as though she were my real mother. Something stirred deep within me… like the sacred love of a mother I had been missing for so long...

Although I didn’t win first prize in that competition, I proudly held my second-place certificate. Tears welled up in my eyes, realizing I hadn’t kept my promise to bring her the first-place award. Throughout the class, I kept my head down, unable to look at her. Suddenly, I felt a gentle hand on my shoulder and heard her soft voice: 'It’s okay, my dear. I know you did your best.' I looked up, my eyes filled with tears, but full of love and gratitude.

Ms. Lich was my homeroom teacher until we graduated. That year, our class was the only one with 100% of students passing the entrance exam. At our farewell party, we all hugged each other, crying. We all wished time could stand still, not wanting to part.

Now that I’m grown up, with a stable job in the city, I still visit her every year during the New Year holidays. I bring her the small tea roses she always loved. She is older now, with her hair turning gray and a few wrinkles on her face. She and her husband still live simply in that little house. Fourteen years have passed, yet she remains as gentle and kind as ever, her eyes still shining. No matter where I go in life, I will never forget those eyes...

In every life, there are memories we hold dear—some joyful that we want to cherish forever, and some sorrowful that we wish to forget. For me, the memories I most want to keep are from my middle school years. Every passing school year, I have met new teachers who left a lasting impression on my heart, and this year was no different. Within just a few months, my literature teacher has made a profound impact on me.

You may think it’s strange that I am writing about my current teacher, while I’m in my ninth year, and I should be writing about teachers from the previous years. But for me, this teacher has already been a part of my life for over six months.

She taught literature throughout the summer, and those were the best three months of my life. She was so dedicated, explaining each lesson in detail. Her warm, expressive voice drew us into the subject. She would break down every detail of the text, helping us understand the deeper meaning of every line, turning those lessons into something rich and meaningful. Thanks to her, we learned to appreciate “The Tale of Kiều” and fell in love with Vũ Nương, the beautiful woman in the story. Stories we once couldn’t understand now seemed so much more profound and enjoyable! While others say literature lessons are boring, her teaching made them fascinating and inspiring. I believe it’s for this reason that she’s so loved by her students.

When the school year began, I was thrilled to find out she would be our homeroom teacher. As a homeroom teacher, she was more serious than during the summer, but she was always encouraging. When our class performed well, she praised us; when we did poorly, she gently reminded us to do better. My mother is also a homeroom teacher, so I understand how challenging it can be to manage a class, especially a final-year class. The more I understood her difficulties, the more determined I became to help our class achieve good results. While other classes might find homeroom lessons stressful, we looked forward to hers, as she shared meaningful stories about life. I loved these stories because they taught us valuable lessons. I had won third place in the eighth-grade academic competition, so she had high expectations for me. I promised myself I would try my best and not disappoint her, but I failed. I thought she would scold me, but she didn’t. Instead, I still remember her encouraging words: 'Even if you don’t pass, don’t be sad, because you’ll have many more chances.' Her words made me feel guilty, making me question if I had truly given my best effort. Yet, despite my failure, she never scolded me, offering gentle encouragement instead. Her kindness became the motivation that kept me moving forward and striving to do better.

One of our classmates, despite a difficult family situation, was an excellent student. We decided to organize a birthday party for him, but someone in the class complained, asking why we only celebrated his birthday and not others. Hearing this, our teacher explained, 'This classmate comes from a poor family, and perhaps hasn’t had a proper birthday in years. Though it may seem like a small gesture, at least it brings some joy to him.' She began to cry as she spoke, and seeing her tears moved us all. In that brief moment, her words taught us what it meant to share and to feel the warmth of friendship. Her tears made us realize that we should share our blessings with others, especially those who are less fortunate. In that moment, I realized that she wasn’t just a dedicated teacher; she was someone who truly cared for her students and understood them.

My writing may not be as polished or elaborate as others, but when I wrote these words, I didn’t expect any reward. I wrote from the bottom of my heart, filled with love and respect for her. I didn’t mention her name because I believe that many of you have had teachers like mine, and I feel she wouldn’t want to be singled out like that.

In just six months, she left an indelible mark on me. She inspired my writing and, if school is my second home, she is like a second mother to me. Thank you, teacher, for everything you’ve done for me. I will work hard to succeed and 'harvest many golden crops' in life.

A student loves their teacher for the lessons imparted in every class. Through prose, poetry, and stories, the teacher taught me how to understand life, people, and myself, and how to live beautifully. His warm, rich voice and charming way of teaching made every literature lesson fascinating. All the students seemed drawn into the endless sea of knowledge that he offered. I truly admired him and wished I could absorb all the wisdom he shared.

I loved him for his unique personality. Everyone would say, 'Our teacher loves to brag.' He certainly did, and I remember most when he would talk about his former students—beautiful, intelligent, and successful. At first, I was annoyed and thought, 'Why does he boast like that?' But soon, I realized that hidden in those stories was his pride and joy in their achievements. I understood that he shared those stories to inspire us to strive for our own success.

I loved him for his artist-like appearance. The students from previous years would say that he had a certain charm, and I agreed. I still remember the first day he entered the classroom, with slightly long hair and wearing a beret. He looked like a true artist. And the glasses he always wore—I loved watching him read, his eyes distant and thoughtful. That image of him will always be engraved in my memory.

There was a teacher who taught me like that...

And finally, it wasn’t just the admiration of a student for their teacher—it was also the love of a child for a beloved father. I was deeply moved by the care and attention he showed to all of us. I still remember that one winter when my feet were swollen and itching. He knew and taught me to soak them in warm salted water. This winter, my feet may not hurt anymore, but I will never forget that simple remedy. It wasn’t just a cure—it was the love of a father.

Teacher, are you still sad? We know we have caused you worry many times. Every time we slacked off in our studies, I could see a moment of regret on your face, a concern for us. I want to join my classmates in saying sorry to you. We promise to try harder.

Another November 20th is approaching. This year, it’s different for you. You are no longer at the blackboard, no longer surrounded by students. I am no longer at the familiar school, hearing your lessons, feeling your care, or seeing your thoughtful expressions. So at this moment, I want to join my classmates from every generation in expressing our deepest gratitude to you.

The rainy afternoons in early summer brought with them the musty scent of wet earth, clinging to the air, unable to wash away the intense heat of the summer sun. The purple bougainvillea branches outside my door, weighed down by the rain, drooped low, brushing against my head. Puddles collected on the street, too stubborn to drain, as bubbles danced across the surface only to burst and fade away, much like the distant memories of a time long past. From the comfort of my home, I gazed at the empty street, watching the hurried figures seeking shelter, or pulling on their raincoats just in time. I couldn't help but recall a rainy afternoon many years ago—a time filled with memories of school, of class, and the unexpected downpour that marked the bittersweet season of farewell. Those memories replayed in my mind like a slow-motion film, an old, colorless film still vivid in its details...

Back then, I was just a sixth grader, stepping into school for the first time, feeling unfamiliar and nervous. My math teacher was Mr. Hung. Unlike the tall, imposing math teachers I had heard of, who wore stern expressions and slammed their rulers on the desk when calling students up to answer, Mr. Hung was short, slightly hunched, with a balding head and a high forehead. His eyes, however, shone with a gentle warmth, often filled with a quiet sorrow, as if a deep, unspoken sadness lingered behind them. His voice was low, deep, and carried a soothing quality, so much so that anyone hearing him teach would mistake it for a literature class. He was kind and simple, always wearing an old brown shirt with black pants, yet he always appeared neat and tidy. His handwriting wasn't elegant—some even said it looked like the round, choppy strokes of a chicken egg—but it was straight, even, and orderly, just like the man himself. We students respected him, not just for his knowledge, but for the simplicity and sincerity he embodied.

He often rode a worn-out motorcycle to school, clearly an old model. I would sometimes see him struggling to get it to start, only for it to die halfway to school. He would have to push it for quite a distance before reaching a repair shop. Whenever this happened, a few of us would rush over to ask if the bike was okay, and he would just smile and say, 'My bike's acting up again.' We also knew that his house was far, up in the town, and his wife sold fruit at the market. Sometimes, we would see him delivering boxes of fruit on his old bike, and we would shout out to him, waving as he smiled and greeted us.

That year, just before the first semester exams, a huge storm hit. My parents told me to stay home, but I insisted on going to class. Half of our class was absent, and only a few teachers managed to make it to school. That day, we were sure that Mr. Hung, living far away, wouldn’t make it, so we were ready to leave early. But then, from a distance, we saw him—wearing a tattered raincoat, his bike sputtering and coughing because of the water, yet he arrived right on time. We were all so moved by his determination. Despite the storm, while most teachers couldn’t make it, he still came to teach us, not wanting us to wait in vain. That day, despite the storm outside, our classroom was warmer than ever, filled with the teacher’s love and dedication.

I remember those days when I was a top student in class, but also quite rebellious and mischievous, like a boy at heart. Mr. Hung liked me because I was a good student, and in the early days, I respected him deeply. But as time passed, I began to take advantage of his gentleness, and would often tease him, especially when I saw him delivering fruit boxes at the market. He was always patient with us, so some of my classmates would play pranks on him, or even argue with him. I felt it was too much, but I admit I also participated in these pranks just to amuse myself and my friends. Even though he never showed anger, I sometimes felt guilty.

By the second semester, we noticed that Mr. Hung had become more serious, and sometimes seemed a bit worn out. He didn’t scold us, but he didn’t smile as much either. Some of the students started to say that he no longer liked our class, but I felt uncomfortable every time we had a lesson with him. Then, a few days before the final exams, he handed us a review sheet and scheduled extra classes to help us prepare. We were grateful, but suddenly, we heard that Mr. Hung had fallen ill and wouldn’t be coming to class. Our class vice president rushed in with the news that Mr. Hung had been hospitalized, and we wouldn’t have math class that day.

At that moment, instead of feeling concerned, we cheered because we got a break from math class. We ran outside to play games, forgetting about Mr. Hung’s illness. The class president mentioned something about visiting him in the hospital, but his house was far, and none of us had the time to go, with exams coming up. We all thought he would recover and be back to teach us, so there was no need to worry.

Then, one hot summer day, just after gym class, I heard a devastating piece of news. 'Mr. Hung passed away! He died yesterday from a stroke.' My heart froze, and I shouted, 'No, that can’t be true!' But as I stood there, my legs felt weak, and I could hear the sobs of my classmates echoing around me. The world seemed to collapse around me, and I stood there, helpless, in the rain, tears blending with the downpour.

At that moment, we all realized that despite his quiet nature, Mr. Hung was deeply loved by all of us. He had been like a father to us, even though we never said it out loud. We knew he saw us as his own children. He knew we were still young and foolish, so he never scolded us harshly. I only wish he had once raised his voice, scolded us, or complained about us—so that I could have heard his warm voice one more time. Now, all I have left is the memory of his kind face and gentle smile. How could someone so gentle, so sincere, leave us so soon?

Looking back now, I understand that Mr. Hung didn’t just die from an illness. He had been ill since the middle of the second semester, and the exhaustion of teaching us had worn him down. That’s why he looked so tired and smiled less. We had no idea that he was suffering, and yet he continued to teach us, sharing his knowledge despite the pain. I wish I could go back in time, just for a moment, to thank him for everything he did for us, and to ask for his forgiveness for those moments when I disrespected him. Did he ever hold a grudge against me?

People say that autumn is the season of love, the time when school begins, the season when young people start to write their dreams along the paths of life. Indeed, there are so many reasons for each of us to welcome the arrival of autumn. The joy of feeling the cool breeze of the earth, the scent of milk flowers drifting through the wind. Yet, I find myself preferring summer to autumn. I love the heat of summer, the chirping of cicadas, the sight of the bright red phoenix flowers blooming across the school yard, and the beauty of summer spent with friends. But most of all, summer makes me miss my teacher.

My teacher was over 50, but he looked even older than that. Like many other teachers, he always dressed simply, just a green shirt and black pants that had accompanied him for years. His hair had started to turn grey, the color that we students found charming. The girls used to tell him they liked his hair color because it resembled the color of chalk dust. He would smile at that, the sweetest smile I had ever seen. But what I remember most was his eyes. His eyes were bright, and looking into them, I could feel he had lived through many hardships. Yet those eyes always looked at us with affection, radiating warmth and trust.

On my first day of school, everything felt strange to me, like a boy who had just been spoiled by his mother, asking for a toy car. In truth, when we leave the comfort of home and step into the world, we realize just how small we are. I remember so clearly the moment I had to leave my mother's arms and step into the classroom.

- Nam, go in with the other kids. Look at them, none of them are clinging to their mothers like this. - My mother said.

- No, I don’t want to go to school. Please take me home! - I shouted, forgetting my role as a son at that moment. I ignored the strange looks from my classmates and the angry gaze from my mother, believing she would eventually give in and take me home. I kept shouting, 'I want to go home,' throwing myself on the ground to make my mother uncomfortable. Just then, a man of similar age came over, sat beside me, and said kindly:

- Are you the new student? Stand up and come into class with me for just five minutes. If you don’t like it, you can leave with your mom. Alright? I stared at him for a moment and then looked up at my mother. She smiled and nodded in agreement. The teacher helped me stand up and we walked into the classroom. I hesitantly followed my teacher inside. Once in the classroom, the teacher gave me a beautiful yellow book, which later I would recognize as my Vietnamese textbook. As I flipped through the pages, I felt like I was entering a different world, a world full of fairy tales, and for a 6-year-old boy, it was a wonderful experience. The teacher said that in the future, I would learn all these beautiful things, discover the wonders of life, and understand the beauty of the world around me. Then, he looked far away and gently said:

Do you see those birds? They were born from eggs, raised and cared for by their mothers day and night. And now they are flying to new lands, to open skies. You, too, must step away from your mother’s embrace to venture into the world, so you can soar high and far like those birds. Maybe you don’t understand everything I’m saying right now, but I believe time will explain it all to you. Five minutes passed quickly. The teacher asked: 'So, Nam, do you still want to go home with your mom?' I didn’t answer, only lowering my head in embarrassment, feeling as though I had done something wrong to my mother. The teacher smiled, and so did my mother. They both knew I wanted to stay, to stay in this classroom and learn all the beautiful things that this world had to offer. That day, my first day at school, was a day I would never forget. It was the day that God gave me a teacher, a father figure, who guided me through my first steps in life.

Time passed, just as I had hoped. My teacher taught me so many wonderful things. How could I forget the times when he sang for the whole class, his voice warm and full of love? And when he settled disputes between classmates, his firm yet gentle manner turned conflicts into valuable lessons in how to treat others. But to me, the teacher was most beautiful when he was teaching. Like a diligent boatman, he brought us a boat full of new knowledge. Oh! His tall figure, holding a book in one hand and chalk in the other, writing neatly on the board, it was so simple yet sacred. Those were the most beautiful days, reflected in the pure eyes of a young student.

But I only studied with him until third grade. After that, due to family reasons, we moved to a small district in Hanoi. I was so sad, missing his lessons, his eyes, and the praise I received when I did well in school. Now, I am a first-year student at Hanoi University of Education. I have grown up and changed so much. Today, I wanted to return to my old school, to the place where I took my first steps. I took a bus to Thai Binh, and headed straight to my old school. But before I could even feel the joy of coming back, I received the devastating news... my teacher had passed away. He had died a month ago from cancer. The world seemed to collapse beneath my feet, and I fell to my knees, tears of sorrow and regret slowly running down my cheeks. I blamed myself for not visiting him once in all these years, for not writing him a letter, and now it was too late. The beautiful memories of our student-teacher relationship had faded into the past, and my teacher had returned to dust. 'I’ve come back, teacher, the school is still here, the classroom is still here, the desks and chairs are still here, but where are you?' Suddenly, a breeze passed by, and I remembered what my teacher had said:

- Whenever you feel sad, send your heart to the wind. And the wind will carry your thoughts far away. I stood up, watching the wind rustle the fallen leaves, and I felt as if my teacher were still here. Wind, please don’t linger here. Go far away, and if you meet my teacher in the distant skies, please deliver my message: 'Teacher, I miss you so much.'

A group of former students, now successful in their careers, gathered to visit their old teacher. The conversation soon turned to life and work…

The teacher invited his former students to enjoy some coffee. He returned from the kitchen, carrying several cups in different shapes and sizes: some were made of porcelain, others of plastic, glass, or crystal. Some were plain and simple, while others were quite elegant and expensive, with intricate designs…

When everyone had their cup of coffee, the teacher spoke gently: 'I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but the beautiful, expensive cups are always chosen first, leaving the simpler, cheaper ones behind.
Although it’s natural to want the best for yourselves, this desire is also the root cause of the stress you face.'

One thing is certain: the cup doesn’t determine the quality of the coffee inside. Sometimes, the cup is just a more expensive exterior, while other times, it even hides what it contains.

What you truly want is the coffee, not the cup. Yet, you instinctively choose the best cups first, and only then do you consider the others.

Similarly, our lives are like the coffee, while work, money, and social status are like the cups. They merely surround our lives. The type of cup you have doesn’t define or change the life you’re living…'

Sometimes, we focus so much on the cup that we forget to savor the coffee that life has given us. The happiest person isn’t the one with the best things, but the one who knows how to make the most of what they already have.

'Without a teacher, you cannot achieve anything,' a cherished proverb passed down through generations in Vietnam. It highlights the critical role that teachers play in shaping the educational journey of each student and serves as a reminder to always appreciate their guidance.

Everyone who has achieved success owes it to their teachers. Even soldiers, facing life-or-death battles, carry the wisdom of their teachers into war. Many of us are familiar with the diary of Nguyen Van Thac, who, before dying in the Quang Tri battlefield in 1972, recalled the advice of his teacher, Mr. Luu. He wrote that it was only after enduring the harsh realities of war that he fully understood his teacher’s lesson on human compassion and trust. Nguyen Van Thac came to realize that living with integrity and pursuing noble dreams, regardless of life's uncertainties, was the path to true success.

Teachers not only teach knowledge but also impart life lessons. They are the ones who prepare us for the world, shaping our character and providing the intellectual foundation we need. From the basics of reading and writing to complex concepts, they nurture both our minds and hearts. Teachers are like sculptors, carving us into people who contribute positively to society. The poet and educator Bui Dang Sinh aptly described this: 'Teachers plant not only knowledge but the very essence of humanity.'

The teaching profession is one of the most honorable and respected professions in Vietnamese society and worldwide. As the saying goes:

'If you want to cross, build a bridge;

If you want your child to excel, respect and love their teachers.'

Teachers, always concerned with the progress of their students, celebrate their successes and are deeply affected by their struggles. The bond between teachers and students is unique and profound, lasting a lifetime and offering constant support. We must always remember this bond, as it is fundamental to a healthy society.

True gratitude to teachers is not just about words, but about actions. We show our respect by excelling in our studies and contributing to society. As President Ho Chi Minh taught, 'Talent without virtue is useless; virtue without talent is ineffective.' In today's world, where the ethical values of students sometimes fall short, we must strive to uphold the sacred relationship between teacher and student, rejecting behaviors that disrespect this bond.

In this context, gratitude is the most precious gift students can give their teachers. It is not only an obligation but a sacred sentiment that should be cherished and upheld at all times.

'When you eat fruit, remember the one who planted the tree; when you drink water, remember its source.' These timeless Vietnamese values remind us to honor those who have guided us through life, offering us knowledge and helping us realize our dreams. No matter where life takes us, the lessons of our teachers will always guide us, like a beacon of support throughout our journey.

'To cross the river, you must build a bridge; To excel in learning, you must respect your teachers.'

These simple words never fail to move me. Perhaps they bring to mind the image of a teacher, a figure I hold in deep reverence, a teacher whose wisdom I will never hear again. This teacher was the one who first taught me to appreciate the value of my own words, and also the one who offered me words of encouragement before I faced the most decisive exam of my life.

The first impression that my teacher left on me was his simplicity. Throughout my three years of studying literature with him, I never once saw him out of his white shirt, black trousers, and shiny sandals. I remember the first day I asked him why he chose to teach literature. I thought a male teacher might be more suited to another subject. His response made me reflect deeply: 'No profession is meant for only one person. What matters is that when you do it, you feel fulfilled and that it becomes your calling.' His words have stayed with me ever since. I realized that those words came from the heart, reflecting his deep passion for the teaching profession.

As a student who excelled in literature, I thought my essays were the best in class. But one day, my teacher opened my eyes to an important lesson. During a test, unable to study, I decided to copy an essay from my older sister. I thought that would guarantee me a good grade. But when I received my paper, I was stunned to see a score of two out of ten. I couldn't understand why—my essay had the correct topic, spelling, and compelling content. I took the paper to him for an explanation. With gentle eyes filled with wrinkles, he softly explained: 'The two points are for encouraging your effort, but you must understand that an essay truly touches the reader's heart when it comes from your own soul, not someone else's.' I was astonished. How did he know I had copied it? He explained that during the test, he had noticed me copying, but he wanted me to realize the importance of expressing my own thoughts. That day, I promised myself I would never copy again. No matter the score, I would always do my own work, because it was a reflection of my heart.

Time passed, and soon the crucial exam approached. But then, one day, I received the heartbreaking news that my teacher, my second father, had passed away from a heart condition. I was overwhelmed with grief. The last time we spoke, he had told me to trust in my abilities and to pour my heart into my exam. I had no idea that those would be the last words I ever heard from him. That afternoon, my classmates and I went to his house to pay our respects. Standing before his portrait, I couldn’t hold back my tears. He was still wearing his white shirt, with his kind eyes looking back at me. He had given so much of his heart and soul to others, and it seemed his own heart could no longer bear the burden. I vowed to live by the lessons he had taught me, and to one day become a teacher like him, so I could meet him again in spirit.

Teacher, I will strive to live as you taught me. I will work hard to become a teacher like you, so I can meet your heart again someday!

Two years of high school, the most beautiful time of life, are quietly passing by. The seasons continue to change, and time keeps running, never slowing down. Or is it slowing down? No, time moves on, invisible yet leaving behind deep emotions in my heart. For eleven years, I have worn the white school uniform, a familiar sight. Yet it is not the uniform but the feelings within that have changed. Over these years, many teachers have left lasting memories in my heart, but the one who has made the most significant impression on me is my literature teacher, Ms. Le Hai Van. I dedicate my heartfelt thanks to her, my beloved teacher! Teacher, may I call you mother, my second mother, the one who shaped my life in such profound ways.

'Every day I carry my books to school,

Food from my father, clothes from my mother, and love from my teacher.'

When I was born, my parents gave me life, nurtured me with their love, and raised me to adulthood. Time passed, and one day, my life took a new turn—the path of knowledge. Here, I met my second mother, my teacher, who didn’t give me milk but instead provided me with the endless wealth of knowledge. I remember my first days at Mai Chau High School—everything was so unfamiliar. New classmates, new teachers, a new school—all of it made me feel small and isolated. But when my teacher entered the classroom, her presence brought warmth. The way she wrote on the board, the smile on her face, and the tenderness in her eyes made me feel cared for and deeply valued. Before meeting her, I was just an average literature student, but under her guidance, I grew and excelled. Despite the large class size, she always found ways to inspire and nurture my passion for literature. To me, she is the greatest mother, a teacher whose love and dedication will never be forgotten. Beyond teaching us literature, she imparted valuable life lessons, teaching us to navigate the trials of life with wisdom and grace.

Her influence remains in my heart, unforgotten. Even as I journey through life, I will never forget the lessons she taught me, nor the way she guided me with her tireless efforts. She was always there, quietly supporting us, urging us to grow. As a student, I was carefree, sometimes careless, and often unaware of the sacrifices she made. I would sometimes make mistakes, and her gentle words of correction would make me feel guilty. Yet, instead of scolding me, she offered her understanding and encouragement, helping me to learn from each misstep. I remember those moments, and they always fill me with regret for disappointing her. But with every lesson, my knowledge and life skills improved.

Now, when life presents its challenges, I am no longer afraid. I stand tall, ready to face obstacles, knowing that my teacher’s wisdom and strength live on in me. The sun still shines brightly on the morning leaves, and the clouds float away after the storms. Time moves on, but the debt I owe to my teacher remains immeasurable. She prepared me for life with the gift of knowledge, giving me the tools to navigate my future. She may not have wings or a halo, but in my eyes, she is my fairy, a magical figure who awakened my love for life and my passion for learning.

With this essay, I send my deepest gratitude from the bottom of my heart. I wish for her good health, happiness, and endless smiles. Life is full of wonders, and I hope she continues to guide generations of students like me, helping them soar to new heights. Thank you, teacher, for all that you’ve done for me. Your warmth and care have nurtured my soul and prepared me for the journey ahead. I thank you deeply, teacher, from the core of my being!

Every November, as the 20th approaches, the one day each year dedicated to honoring teachers, memories of my school days flood back. I remember the kind words, the gentle pats on the back, and even the stern warnings from teachers when I made mistakes.

Teachers are the ones who pour their love into their students, even those who may have caused frustration, perhaps even being sent out of class or suspended for a week.

They endure countless challenges, managing the chaos we sometimes bring, yet they are also the rescuers for students facing bullying. Teachers are often seen as role models, or like second parents to their students.

Teachers were the ones who taught me to write my first letters, and as I grew older, I began to understand the depth of their care. When they held my hand to guide me in writing those first characters, it wasn't just about learning to write—it was about shaping my character. They stayed up late to re-read and grade essays with feedback like 'the reflection is superficial,' all out of genuine concern for our growth. Everything they do is with the hope that we will become better, more mature individuals.

I remember the days of November 20th when I was young—those were the times when I would ask my mom to buy a gift for my teachers. But I was too shy to go alone; I always needed her by my side. The gifts back then were simple: shampoo, seasoning, milk, notebooks, or pens. If my family was well-off, we’d buy fabric to make clothes for the teachers. As I got older, I learned to buy my own gifts, but the first time I had to give them to a teacher, I was so nervous. I would rush in, hand over the gift, say a quick 'Happy November 20th' and run out the door, only for the teacher to call me back, asking me to stay for a few minutes.

As I got older and entered high school, I saw November 20th as a kind of 'light' school day. Usually, teachers would give us a break from the usual lessons and there wouldn’t be any surprise quizzes. Sometimes, we’d just chat or even skip a class entirely. The class would present flowers to the teachers, and that was the end of it.

However, November 20th isn’t just about receiving flowers and gifts. For teachers, the true joy comes from seeing their students grow and succeed. The pride they feel when they witness the results of their hard work is the greatest reward for a teacher.

As for my November 20th, though I now work far from home and cannot visit my teachers, they never forget about me. Whenever I call, they recognize my voice before I even say my name. I am always overjoyed, sometimes even moved to tears. No matter how mischievous I was in class, my teachers still remember me fondly, laughing as they ask, 'The troublemaker from my class, how are you? Where are you working now? You must come visit me next year!' Despite years of teaching and countless students, my teachers still remember me, which is a testament to the love and care they put into their students. Even if they were strict with me, I now understand that it was only because they wanted the best for me. I believe everyone can feel the same, because without their guidance, would we have become who we are today, sitting here reading these words?

As I write these lines, I remember all the mischief I caused. How could I have done such things? But as they say, 'First comes the devil, then the ghost, and third comes the student.' Still, I hope that as November 20th approaches, we all take a little time to visit our teachers, or at least give them a quick phone call. Teachers won’t forget you, but don’t just post a quick message on social media wishing them a happy November 20th. A heartfelt phone call means more than you think.

Thank you to all the teachers who have guided me from the very first day of learning etiquette to my studies in literature. All the love, respect, and deepest gratitude I feel for the educators who shaped me into who I am today. I wish all teachers continued health and happiness, as they continue to nurture the next generations.

I was born in a small rural village, and my elementary school was just as modest. It was a school that welcomed poor children with dirty hands and bare feet. Yes, my school was poor, but it was there that I found so much joy and countless memories of a beloved teacher for whom I hold deep gratitude.

Over 10 years have passed, but the image and words of my teacher are still etched in my mind. It was in the fifth grade when I was moved to a new class. On the first day, I stood nervously at the door, unsure of what to expect from my teacher and classmates. But my teacher, noticing me, greeted me warmly. With a kind smile and a reassuring hand, I stepped into the class with a sense of calm I had never felt before. From that moment on, I grew to love and admire my teacher even more. The two words that best describe him are 'compassionate' and 'dedicated.' He gave his all in every lesson, every classroom session, whether it was a hot day or pouring rain—he was always there to bring us something new to learn.

I remember the floods that would submerge the roads and school. But even so, our teacher and all of us still made our way to school. We trudged through the water to learn, and strangely, it felt like the lessons could overcome even the rising floodwaters. When the weather was bad and we couldn’t make it to class, he would visit our homes to check on us and help find ways to make sure we could attend school without worry. He was so devoted to teaching, so loving towards all of us. I even visited his home—a small thatched-roof house, neat and clean, but filled with the boundless love of my teacher.

More than just a teacher of subjects, he taught us valuable lessons about life. He often encouraged us to study hard and not be defeated by poverty. He believed that we, his students, could build brighter futures. His faith in us became our own, fueling our dreams and aspirations. His words of wisdom stayed with me through the years.

I still remember the times he took me to school. The stone road was soaked with the sweat of his hard work. I can never forget seeing him on his old bicycle, its wheels squeaking with every turn. Just sitting behind him, the long journey felt much shorter, and the heat of the midday sun seemed to vanish. I remember his back drenched in sweat, but he was always smiling. Oh, how I miss him!

On that long, rugged road, we talked about so many things, and suddenly, he felt like a close friend. Once, he asked me, 'If you could only pass through a road filled with wildflowers, which one would you choose as the most beautiful?' At that time, I didn’t quite understand, and I just laughed quietly. He then explained, 'As you walk down your path in life, there will be many such 'flowers.' Don’t wait to reach the end of your journey to seize opportunities that will help you go further.' That was when I understood his message, and his words gave me the courage to leave my small village and move to the city to study. His gentle, yet profound advice has always stayed with me.

Today, I look back and remember those stories of my teacher from the past. I silently thank him for all the good he brought into my life. His teachings have guided me for years, and even though I haven’t had the chance to visit him in nearly 10 years, I still hold him in high regard. The old school is fading, and each visit reveals more gray in his hair. But no matter how much time passes, his dedication and love remain the same.

To me, 'the teacher of my past' is a symbol of an exceptional Vietnamese educator. His sacrifice comes from a deep love for teaching and for children. Even today, I hold a deep respect and gratitude for this teacher who shaped my life.

I was a student who seemed impossible to teach. Every teacher who had taught me remarked the same to my parents. No class had ever kept me for more than a month. My mother cried. My father sighed, 'Looks like this one’s a lost cause.'

I transferred to a new school. The principal, after briefly reviewing my record, wanted to expel me right away. But out of respect for my father, who was a former director of the local education department, he reluctantly accepted me. 'I’ll put you in Mr. Tiến’s class.' Mr. Tiến was the teacher in charge of the school's most troubled students. On the first day, my father personally took me to meet him. I sneaked a look at my new 'opponent.' Mr. Tiến was thin, wearing heavy black-rimmed glasses, his eyes narrowing as he stared at me closely. 'A boy, huh? Let's see if I can make something of you,' he said. He placed me next to a sharp-faced girl with a bob haircut. She nudged me to take up less space, and I gave in. I'd never hit a girl. And so, Mr. Tiến won the first round.

'Do you know why you got ink on your friend's shirt?' he asked when Tú, a girl in my class, complained. How did he know? I hadn’t confessed anything!

Previously, whenever I got ink on someone’s clothes, the teachers would scold me immediately, and the punishment would follow. I’d always come up with some story where I was the victim, making up details no one ever believed. I didn’t care about the punishment or whether anyone believed me. But this time, Mr. Tiến just said, 'Be more careful next time,' and didn’t punish me. I was surprised. After that, I continued to get ink on three more victims’ shirts, and each time, he would just nod and say he knew, without any punishment. Eventually, I grew tired of the old ink-splashing trick, realizing it wasn’t making much of an impression.

Back then, every student carried a small slate and a piece of chalk. During recess, I would throw chalk at the girls jumping rope outside. After school, I’d push my friends around and rush out to the front gate. Anyone unlucky enough to pass by would lose their chalk to me. One day, Mr. Tiến called me to his office. He opened his drawer and handed me a big box of chalk without a word. I felt so embarrassed. I looked away as I took the box. I remember how stubbornly I ignored my old teacher’s scoldings, but after receiving the box from Mr. Tiến, I couldn’t face him. Holding the box, I shyly muttered, 'I won’t do it again.' He smiled and said, 'You’re a good kid.'

For the first time, someone praised me for being good. I lay awake thinking about it all night. I decided I would be good from now on, so no one would scold me again. But being good didn’t mean I was good at school. That was true in my case. I could play marbles all day, but as soon as I sat down to study, I would get bored. My parents could scold and punish me all they wanted, but nothing helped. Math was okay, but I was completely lost when it came to literature.

After a month, I saw Mr. Tiến riding his bike to my house. His bike was rusted, its original color long gone. He came inside when my parents were out. Looking at my shabby home, he promised to come back the next day. I spent the whole day worrying. I didn’t know what I had done wrong. The next day, he returned and asked to speak with my father outside. He explained that he needed someone to help him read and transcribe some materials, specifically in the handwriting of a child. He was researching something. My parents were relieved that I would stay home for a while instead of being sent to school. I reluctantly agreed to visit him the next day.

Mr. Tiến lived alone. His house, except for a few bookshelves, had nothing of value. Each day, I spent one session transcribing the materials. He would ask me to write a short reflection on each piece, then read it aloud for him to correct any misunderstandings and add his thoughts. Occasionally, he would ask me to stop writing and help him with some calculations. I went home and practiced my math skills so that I wouldn’t disappoint him. Slowly, knowledge began to flow in naturally.

The first time I held a certificate in my hands, my mother cried, even harder than when I was expelled from school. My father didn’t say much, just nodded and smiled. The year passed quickly. Even during the summer break, I kept reading and transcribing the pile of books Mr. Tiến had given me. On the first day of school, I couldn’t find Mr. Tiến anywhere. A bad feeling swept over me. I skipped the ceremony and rushed to his house. His home was empty. The neighbor, hearing the dog bark, came over and told me, 'Is this Phong? Mr. Tiến left this for you. He’s moving south to live with his son.'

I opened the letter quickly. It was short: 'I hope you continue to study well. You’ll always be my good student.' Ten years later, I finally understood what he meant. Some things can’t be changed through anger. It’s love and creativity that can change you and others. Thank you, Mr. Tiến, for your unique teaching methods that helped me grow. Thank you, my teacher!

The chill of late autumn settled in. The last few leaves drifted away, carried by the wind. The sky was vast and clear, occasionally rippled by waves of white clouds. The scene was incredibly still! The relentless mist added a few more drops, blurring the solitude that had begun to grow inside me.

People often say that rain brings sadness. But in this moment, I felt something far deeper! Every time I found myself in such a moment, my mind involuntarily drifted back to childhood memories—the days of carrying my school bag and heading to class! Among these memories, there was one story that stood out above the rest. It was a time when I disappointed someone I deeply respected... I must have been in fifth grade. Back then, I was excellent at math! Every test, I’d confidently grab a perfect score. My math teacher especially favored me, and I loved math too! I’m not sure if it was a genetic trait or if I simply liked the roundness of that perfect score!

But soon, my initial excitement faded. The homework became more tedious, and soon, outside of school, my parents were piling more and more on my plate! So much so, that sometimes I felt like my head was going to explode, like a ticking time bomb! Then came one Sunday night, when, while other kids were enjoying their day off, I found myself buried in homework. Hour after hour, I kept writing, following a repetitive pattern, like a machine. After finishing the assignments my parents had given me, I was exhausted, but I still had schoolwork to finish. I opened my textbook, but I couldn’t focus. I just stared at the pages, but my mind was far off, lost somewhere. I was exhausted! Suddenly, a thought crossed my mind that I had never had before: 'Do I really need to do this? What if the teacher doesn’t even check?' And like a reflex, another thought fought back: 'What if the teacher does check?' 'With so many people in the class, would it really be me?' 'But what if it is?' My thoughts tangled, and I yelled out in frustration, not even knowing why. I knew which thought was right. So, I picked up my pen and continued working, but my fatigue took over. My handwriting became erratic and sloppy. I threw the pen down, leaned back, and looked at the clock—it was late. My eyes felt drained, as if all my energy had been taken. 'Let whatever happen, happen.'

Eventually, I gave in! I quickly closed my notebook and rolled up in my blanket. Wrapped in the warmth of sleep's allure, I felt a sense of worry, but in an instant, everything was forgotten. The next morning, I woke up late. I grabbed a couple of pieces of bread and rushed to school. When I arrived, I felt a wave of fear. My hands and forehead were drenched in sweat. The same anxious feeling returned. I breathed slowly, trying to calm myself. A classmate turned to me and asked for help with the homework. I told him he should do it himself. Normally, I’d help, but today, I hadn’t even looked at the assignment! After attendance, the teacher began to go over the homework. My heart pounded in my chest as his finger scanned the list of names. On the outside, I tried to smile and appear calm, but inside, I was filled with dread, my heart racing. The teacher paused, looked up, and stared directly at me. He smiled, and the chill ran down my spine. 'Come up and present your homework,' he said.

Those words shattered my vague fear, only to be replaced by a real one. I stood up slowly and confessed to the teacher, my voice trembling with sobs. I kept my head lowered, letting my hair cover my tear-filled eyes, unable to look him in the face. My hands clutched each other tightly. I saw a drop fall on my notebook, then another, then three. A weathered hand gently lifted my notebook. I looked up quietly and saw the teacher—his face showed no emotion, but I could tell he was deeply disappointed. He placed the notebook down and returned to the desk. He took a pencil and wrote something. I guessed it was my first failure!

The bell rang, and the others rushed out of the classroom like a swarm of bees. But I stayed seated, still silent, filled with regret. I cried as I pulled my notebook toward me, finishing the hated homework. If only I hadn’t been so lazy, if only I had done my work, I wouldn’t have disappointed the teacher! The feeling of letting down someone I respected, someone who had placed their trust in me, was terrible! I wished the Earth would stop spinning, that time would stand still, that my eyes would go blind so I wouldn’t have to see the sadness in my teacher’s face. I lifted my face, letting the tears flow, hoping they would wash away my guilt. Then, a hand appeared, wiping my tears away. It was a calloused hand—I recognized it. It was the teacher’s! He had been sitting next to me the whole time. I choked out an apology, bowing my head once more. But then, his hand gently lifted my chin, allowing me to look into his eyes. 'Have you finished your homework?' he asked. I didn’t answer, only nodding silently. He smiled, and that smile warmed my heart, a silent affirmation of 'Well done.' He pulled out a pen and the grade book. My heart almost stopped as I saw a perfect score written in pencil next to my name. The teacher carefully redrew the number with a red pen. Even though I had disappointed him, he still believed in me!

It’s been a long time since that day, but it stays with me always. It was a lesson that meant so much to me. I still remember the teacher’s hand, his smile, and that perfect score in pencil. Never disappoint others. If you do, the world will feel like a grave!