Top 10 Best Essays About Fathers

At five in the morning, the time I always set to welcome the dawn, the mist still lazily clings to the leaves. On the balcony, the vibrant flowers continue to bloom, greeting the new day. On the old orchid vines, new shoots are emerging, passing the torch to the next generation. The generation of fathers and grandfathers.

It suddenly occurred to me that all life—plants, animals, and humans—share a similar instinct to survive and perpetuate their species for future generations. On this Sunday morning, the streets are still sleepy, with houses locked up. Normally, the city wakes up early, with people heading off to work or the market. But today, people linger a little longer in bed, resting after a tiring week. Across the street in a run-down alley, a young mother struggles to carry a bag of baby supplies while pushing a stroller with her tiny child, waving towards their apartment. A father in a wheelchair opens the door—this everyday scene of the young couple and their little boy. The father, who lost his legs in an accident, and the mother, who sells lottery tickets, continue their life together. My eyes grow misty as I think of my own father. He shared my childhood on a sunlit field. My father was a poor teacher, well, back in the eighties, teachers were rarely wealthy. Unlike today, where teachers drive flashy cars and live in large homes. Back then, a teacher's salary was barely enough to buy rice, and our family lived in a constant cycle of debt. When my parents were paid, it was used to pay off debts; a few days later, we'd have rice. By the end of the month, we were borrowing again to buy more rice. My father always joked about it being a 'perpetual debt.' A debt that reincarnates.

Then one day, just like any other, my father returned from school on his old, broken-down bike—no brakes, no bell, no rear rack. That day, he seemed more cheerful than usual. From his shirt pocket, he pulled out a large, ripe guava. We lived in central Vietnam, and back then, goods weren’t as freely exchanged as they are now, so the guavas in our area were small. A guava the size of a child's fist was considered big. But this one was huge—about the size of a rice bowl, yellow-green with a fragrant smell. We crowded around him, eager to know where it came from and if it was delicious. In our childish minds, we hoped he would cut it open quickly so we could taste the delicious fruit. But my father explained that it was a gift from a student returning from the South, meant for planting, not for eating. We were disappointed but quickly cheered up when my father took out his knife and cut the fruit into pieces, sharing it with all of us. The flesh of the guava was thick, crisp, and sweet. At that moment, we thought it was the most delicious guava we’d ever eaten. My father then washed the seeds and set them aside for planting. Over the next two years, his guava orchard flourished. After patiently fertilizing and watering the plants, our family had more than thirty guava trees bearing fruit. We tied the ripe fruit in plastic bags to protect them. The guavas were often larger and softer than usual. The trees were laden with fruit, and my father sent us to share them with the neighbors. On some days, when there were too many ripe guavas, my mother would take them to the market to sell. Back then, few people bought fruit in the countryside, so the prices were very low.

My parents remained humble educators in our small village. When the government began offering better benefits for teachers, both of my parents passed away. We had to leave our beloved homeland in search of a better life. My father rests in his hometown, reminding me that nothing lasts forever. But to me, he remains the same as yesterday, by his lush guava garden.

Years have passed, and we have grown up, becoming parents ourselves. When my own children fall ill or simply trip and fall, the instinct to protect and care for them overwhelms me. It stirs up the same emotions I felt as a child, sheltered in my parents' embrace.

The world is vast, but in every home, there is love—endless love between parents and their children. We must cherish what we have today, so we won’t regret it tomorrow. If only…

Whether the sky is clear or cloudy, the world may change, but the love of parents for their children will endure forever.

Hoà Bình Nguyễn.

There is a saying: "A girl’s first true love is her father" (Marisol Santiago). A father is a man who, on the outside, appears strong, yet is gentle at heart, pretending to be tough but breaking down in the moment when his wife fights for life to bring their daughter into the world. A daughter is a father’s heart and soul. So, sometimes, the two of them put the mother aside. To a father, his little girl is a precious gem, carefully held in his arms. The moment he cradled his tiny child in his hands, he handled her gently, fearful of causing any harm. Every day, he cared for her, fed her, and lulled her to sleep. When returning home from work, he rushed to see his daughter in her cradle, ensuring she was safe. As she grew, he taught her to crawl, held her hand through her first steps, and although it hurt him when she fell, he held back his emotions, wanting her to be strong enough to rise on her own. The happiest moment for a father was when his daughter first called out: "Daddy, daddy, papa, papa." A father may seem ordinary, but at times, he is a superhero. He is always there to protect his child from harm, whether it’s from barking dogs or preventing a fall. As time passes, the father may feel a little sorrowful, seeing his daughter no longer as a tiny bundle in his arms. Though she’s grown, she will forever be his princess, and he will always protect her from the storms of life. A father teaches his daughter valuable lessons, especially the importance of honesty. Yet, how often does he lie, telling her things like: "I’m not hungry, you and mom eat," "I’m not tired," "I’m fine," or "Work is easy, I’m doing fine"? Are these lies, or are they small sacrifices to keep his family at peace? A father may endure hardship, sacrifice his own needs, but ensures that his daughter has everything—whether it’s the doll she wants, the beautiful princess dress, or a soft teddy bear. A father, the pillar of the family, works tirelessly, yet never spends for himself. The money he earns is for his wife and daughter, while he’s always content with just enough. A father may not be handsome or tall like the actors or models, yet he carries a child in his arms, loving her even if another man comes into her life. Despite this, his daughter is still his only one, and he’d sacrifice everything to make her happy. A father endures pain and suffering for his family but never hesitates to embrace joy when it comes. He gives without expecting anything in return. A father says he’s fine, but when it comes to his family, he will protect them fiercely. He may be gentle normally, but if anyone touches his loved ones, he transforms into a fierce defender. A father’s heart aches when he sees his daughter staying up late to study. He puts aside everything to support her through exams, more anxious than anyone else waiting outside. A father may be heartbroken when his daughter brings home a boyfriend, the one who will share her heart, but he is also proud. Giving away his daughter feels like a loss for him, but he will always be the one to stand behind her. No matter how far away she goes, she will always have a safe place in his arms. A father is the eternal protector, the hero who loves his daughter with all his heart. She may find love in another’s arms, but she will always be the princess of her father’s heart. A father’s love is limitless, ever-lasting, and unconditional, no matter the circumstances.

April is almost over, but the lingering chill still holds on. The heavens seem to pity someone, as the rain falls incessantly day and night. During these days, I seek a quiet moment to reflect on everything in life. And as I think about my father – a person I perhaps still feel indebted to.

It's been quite some time since I wrote about my father. It's not that my emotions have dulled or that I don't know what to write, but it's because my father's love for me has always been silent, never needing to be expressed in words. When I speak of my father, I can only sum it up in two words: extraordinary. My father's life was not rich in material wealth, but he gave me an immense and boundless love. My childhood was sweet and beautiful with memories of him carrying me on his shoulders, or riding behind him on his bicycle down winding roads lined with green bamboo. He was also my first teacher in life, teaching me to love, to know right from wrong, and igniting within me the spark of dreams and aspirations.

My grandmother once told me that my father was very intelligent when he was young. But because of our poor family, he only managed to finish fifth grade. That's why he worked hard to earn money so I could have a better education. In his youth, he worked as a day laborer, carrying sand and gravel, earning a meager wage. Our family's survival depended on his small earnings. Every time the boat was delayed by a day or two, I would see my father’s face filled with worry, and he became irritable without reason. As a child, I couldn’t understand and sometimes felt afraid, hiding behind my mother’s skirt when he was angry. It wasn’t until I grew up and faced the same worries he once had that I truly understood the weight of life’s burdens and the pressures my father endured.

In my memories, my father was a man of few words. He rarely expressed affection or kind words. There were times when I unknowingly compared him to other fathers and thought he didn’t love me. But every time I was sick or fell, he would quickly ride his bike to buy medicine, disregarding the thunderstorm around him. It was then that I truly understood: my father loved me. He kept a love as vast as Mount Tai hidden behind his silence. His love was like that – quiet, secretive, and unwavering. The passage of time moves on relentlessly, waiting for no one.

My father’s once-dark hair now shows streaks of silver. His once-strong skin is now etched with wrinkles.

I grew up. When I got married, my father saw me off with a smile of happiness. But he didn’t dare to look as I left for my new home. I’m sure he felt sadness and emptiness inside. I thought that once I was married, he would stop worrying about me, focusing on his own well-being. But he quietly continued to watch over me. Whenever I faced challenges in life, he would silently approach, sit beside me, and help me wipe away my tears. Sometimes, when I felt like giving up, my father would hold my hand tightly, as if to give me strength to carry on. In the evenings, when the sun sets, I can still picture the silhouette of my father, thin and waiting, hoping for my return. There were times when I got caught up in work and didn’t visit home. My father would call to check on me, reminding me to take care of myself. His warm words, full of love, became my motivation to push through life’s storms.

In his old age, it’s usually the children who care for and support their parents. But my father’s burdens grew heavier after my mother’s accident. He quietly took on the responsibility of caring for her, becoming the emotional pillar that allowed me to focus on my family and work. Whenever I called, he always assured me everything was fine. But I knew he was hiding his tears. Deep down, he was exhausted. There are times when I feel so indebted to him. Even now, I feel I still owe him so much, and I wonder if I’ll ever be able to repay him.

In my mind, my father was always the strongest. He was the pillar of our family, the one I could rely on when I stumbled. I was so thoughtless, and then one day I noticed how much his hair had turned gray. My father had grown old, and he needed me by his side more than ever, to care for him, encourage him, and support him.

Sometimes, we take our care for our fathers for granted. We think that buying expensive gifts for them on special occasions is enough. But why wait for the Vu Lan festival to show our appreciation? Let’s take the time to show our love for them every day – simply by sharing a quiet dinner together. Let’s love our fathers more while we still have the chance. Don’t wait until they are gone to scream out, “Father, where are you?”

Author: Nguyễn Thanh Thủy, Pen Name: Thanh Thuy

In April, the weather is no longer capricious or humid like the previous days. The delicate strands of sunlight, as thin as spider webs, now glow softly on the kitchen roof. Mother says this is the early morning sun after the spring rains, the light that makes people feel more alive and connected to nature. In the garden, the morning glories sway gently in the breeze, while birds chirp by the fence and the dew still lingers on the grass. Each droplet shines brightly in the fresh new sun, creating a strangely peaceful scene. Mother picks a beautiful white lily to place in a Chu Dau ceramic vase, then asks my cousin to pluck some betel leaves from the front yard. She sits by the wooden bed, chewing betel with a pleasant aroma, blending with the scent of the tree bark in the house, warming the air. After a while, she says: 'Time passes so quickly. Forty-eight years ago, I gave birth to you, and when you were just one month old, the South was liberated and the country was reunified. The event of April 1975 is a day we can never forget. In a few days, the local government will surely send an invitation for your father to attend the 48th anniversary of the South's liberation.'

Father sits in the sun near the row of areca palms, his shadow stretching long on the brick yard. His hair has turned white with time, and his hands are dotted with age spots. He quietly pours chrysanthemum tea from a clay teapot into two small cups, following his usual ritual. I've brewed tea many times, but Father never likes it. I used to put in too many flowers, making the tea bitter and dull. Now, he only adds two or three small chrysanthemums from the garden, flowers that, after being sun-dried, have a pleasant scent and taste. Father says he's been having trouble sleeping lately, but the tea I make helps him sleep better. Last year, the veteran's association invited him to visit the old battlefields, and after the visit, everyone was given a gift along with a box of chrysanthemum tea. He sips his tea and reminisces about the glorious years that have passed.

In 1969, my father was a communications officer during the war. The struggle against the Americans was incredibly intense, and each soldier carried not only weapons but also communication equipment to ensure timely contact with other units. Father often tells us about his experiences crossing high mountains, dense forests, and deep streams to deliver messages and set up secret communication networks. He says that only those who fought can truly understand the value of peace. The moment on April 30, 1975, when the country reunified, was a joyous one for all the people, a moment when families could finally reunite.

The war was over, and in April 1976, Father came home to visit. Mother recalls receiving a letter from him when I was just one month old, and now, as he returns, I am already one year old. It was a joyful day when she saw him, healthy and strong, riding a borrowed bicycle. In his soldier's uniform, with his liberation army hat, he greeted everyone warmly. The entire office celebrated his return, and even though life was still difficult, the warmth of human connection was ever-present. That evening, we had a simple meal of roasted peanuts, wild tea, and a lily Father had bought at the market. Mother says that lily is the most beautiful bouquet she has ever received. From then on, every year, she planted lilies to remind her of that historic April. Time has shown the true value of peace, and today our country is prosperous and happy.

A few years ago, I saw Father’s frail hands gently unfold his old war mementos. He took out a worn hammock, an old pair of binoculars, faded military insignia, a field notebook, and a water canteen. He also showed me a black-and-white photo of him with his comrades, now yellowed with time. There was also a small bird made from tank scraps and stuffed with cotton, which he had made for my sister when he was recovering from an injury. These are all the treasures Father kept from the war. Some of his comrades have passed away, while others still live on, their sacrifices etched in the history of our nation's reunification. These are the eternal flames in the hearts of soldiers like my father and those fortunate enough to return.

The war ended almost half a century ago, but the memories of that heroic time still live in Father's heart. I know that soldiers never regret their youth; they live fully for the greater cause. Yet, they long to relive their youth in the embrace of their comrades. Every April, when the weather turns mild and the lilies bloom, I feel Father’s emotions surge. April is the season of flowers, the season of the soul, the season of independence, freedom, and happiness.

Đinh Tiến Hải

"Why do you study? Why study Math?..." The teacher's voice echoed in the first lesson at the start of a new school year. The students sat quietly, some thinking, others murmuring answers like: to know more, to be smart, to love Math, or to earn money... Meanwhile, the teacher, with his bald head, tanned skin, bright eyes, teeth stained from smoking, rough hands, a gray shirt, black leather belt, and warm, strong voice, said: "Correct, all of you are right, but the primary reason to study is to become a good person, to know how to love and help your family and society. Math helps you know how much rice to cook to avoid waste, how to budget for food for the week, how much a hectare is, and how to divide land among families. See Math in everyday life—just like when you eat, when your mother goes to the market, when the carpenter builds a house, or when you play marbles or jacks. Understanding this means loving yourself, your family, and contributing to society..." Outside the window, a young girl listened intently, her eyes wide with fascination. The special thing was that every year, she eagerly waited for this first lesson, because in later lessons, the teacher would teach older students, and she wouldn't understand a thing...

That girl was me, and the teacher was my father – Mr. Nguyen Trong Thai, from Duong Yen village (Lo – Ngoc Thanh – Kim Dong – Hung Yen), over thirty years ago. The name Thai Toan became familiar as I often heard it mentioned by senior educators (including students) from the district and province.

There are countless memories of my father that I can’t recall now because I was too young and didn’t think to document them. But I’ve always known this: I am immensely proud of my father.

My father shared that after graduating from the University of Pedagogy, he was assigned to teach at An Thi High School, then at Duc Hop Middle School, later at the Hiệp Cường Night School in Kim Dong District, then at Lương Bằng Night School, and finally at Đồng Thanh Middle School. Afterward, he worked at the Kim Dong Education and Training Department and retired in 2008. My father worked tirelessly, like a busy bee.

Looking back now, my father never had any official documents to prove he was a great teacher – unlike today’s educators, who have all sorts of certificates for being excellent teachers, awards for excellent achievements, and commendations from local authorities. But I clearly remember my father being sent by the school to participate in teacher competitions in An Thi and even outside in Hai Duong. When he went, I didn’t remember how often he was away, but when he came back, he would always bring home a conical hat as a prize for winning first place. My father’s life was full of these hats, and I don’t remember how many times I would run to welcome him home, take the hat, and proudly show it to my mother. I would innocently search his bag for gifts, but always found none, because back then, winners didn’t receive money from those competitions like today.

Once, when my family was living in a collective housing complex in Đồng Thanh, Kim Dong, a man with a weary, simple appearance, riding a bicycle loaded with cabbages (perhaps he was selling them) came and asked for my father's name:

- Teacher! – He said softly.

- Who are you looking for? – My father seemed surprised.

- It’s me, teacher, don’t you remember? You once went to my house to convince me to attend night classes because I loved learning, even though my family couldn’t afford it. You gave my family rice and meat coupons when your own family needed them. Do you remember?

My father seemed confused, then nodded slowly.

So the story unfolded as my father remembered him... When he left, the man gave my family a few cabbages, saying: "Even if I could give you hundreds of cabbages, several delicious dishes, or something valuable today, it would never repay the value of the rice and meat on those coupons, nor the effort you made to teach me..." Hearing this, my family was deeply moved, and the former student was also emotional, choked up when seeing my father again. As for me, I felt even prouder of my father.

When I grew up, my father recounted that during his time as a teacher, there was an inspection by Mr. Nguyen Viet Thach, who worked at the Kim Dong District Education Department at the time (he was once the head of the Natural Sciences Department at the Hung Yen Teacher Training College, now retired). Mr. Thach came to observe my father's lesson. My father shared: "When I was teaching, he came in and said, 'I didn’t get to observe anyone, so I’ll just sit in on this lesson for fun.' At first, I didn’t pay much attention to his presence, but later, he sat silently, intently watching until the lesson ended, without giving any evaluation. When he left, he smiled warmly and shook my hand." My father laughed heartily as he told this story.

When I studied at Đồng Thanh Middle School, Kim Dong, I loved hearing my father teach (ironically, I was never taught by him from grade six to grade nine). I loved watching his calm posture and the radiant look on his face while teaching. Not only I, but many others also shared the same impression of him. Mr. Song, the former principal of Phu Cu Middle School, when he recognized me at the 2009–2010 Teacher Excellence Competition, shared this about my father:

- Your father is amazing. He taught Math without ever needing a lesson plan, yet his lessons were always smooth. He would teach and the time would fly by, but by the end, everything was perfectly wrapped up. His talent was teaching all kinds of students, from the brightest to the weakest. Another talent was teaching Geometry without ever needing a ruler or compass, yet the shapes were perfect. He was so skilled that even the most mischievous students loved his lessons... He was funny yet precise, gentle but firm...

Hearing Mr. Song speak of my father made me so proud. There’s something I still haven’t achieved, even though I am a teacher today, constantly struggling with new methods and modern teaching techniques. I still feel my lessons aren’t as effective as my father’s, based on what others say. Perhaps, from my father, I am searching for my own path in the profession. What is it? It feels unclear, difficult! Could it be his passion for teaching, his love for Math, his dedication to his students’ souls? Or is it because my father loved teaching like his own breath, never distracted by anything in life, and his only focus was how well his students understood Math, how well they applied it to life? These thoughts constantly drive me to search for an answer.

Since retiring, my father has been ill, but he never stopped talking about teaching. Every time I brought my children to visit him, my father would make tea and speak to me like he did with his colleagues. His words, which will forever stay with me, continue to guide me as a teacher: "No matter what, I still prefer to be in the classroom." "When teaching students, you must see what they need..." "When teaching your own children, there should be no pressure; if you’re angry, step away and calm down before continuing." "Teaching should not lose your heart, but never forget to bring out the talent in your students." "The teaching profession is not about seeking profit, that’s not the way…"

The first lesson I ever heard from my father was my very first lesson as a teacher. I will continue the path my father started, as it was the most precious decision I made when I chose to become a teacher.

Collected

The season is slowly drifting towards the end of the year. Recently, the cold winds of the northeast monsoon have been sweeping in, bringing bone-chilling cold that seems to test human endurance.

This afternoon, after returning from the barber, I gazed at my gray-streaked hair in the mirror, and suddenly, I thought of my father, who lived for his family until his last breath. My heart clenched with sorrow. Without realizing it, I swallowed a lump in my throat, and my eyes became teary...

More than thirty years have passed, yet I still quietly call out to my father in my dreams every night.

The day he passed, I wasn't by his side to say goodbye. I received the news through a telegram, and I was stunned and disoriented, feeling a deep sense of emptiness. It was probably the first time in my life that I received such heartbreaking news (I was stationed at the border in Lang Son at that time). After reporting to my unit commander, with no means of transportation, it wasn't until the evening of the next day that I finally made it home. The first person to greet me when I arrived was my mother. It had been so long since I had seen her wearing a white headscarf. She was leaning on a bamboo cane, her frail body shaking as she looked up at me with dry, blurry eyes and took my rough hand in hers, choking back tears:

- Why did you come back so late? We've been waiting for you, but your father has already been taken to the field for three days. Before he left, he kept calling your name. It's so sad!

She cried softly, her eyes red and swollen. Seeing her small, bent figure, my heart ached with pain!

It felt as though someone was squeezing my chest, and my heart ached. Tears streamed down my face, mixing with the dry, salty taste in my mouth...

I threw my backpack on the floor, walked to my father’s altar, and shakily lit three incense sticks, then bowed my head in prayer.

- Father! I called out to him through my sobs, but words failed me.

And so, I cried uncontrollably, as if I had never cried before...

Born in a poor, flooded land, my father was a simple, hardworking farmer. My sisters told me that before he passed, that afternoon, he had tried to finish plowing his fields to prepare for the winter-spring season. Late in the evening, after finishing his work, he came home, noticed the warm well water, and quickly rinsed off the dirt before having a quick dinner.

After eating, he complained of a headache and felt feverish. He drank some water and went to bed under the blankets. Shortly after, my older sister heard him mumbling as if calling someone. She rushed to his bedside and found him trembling, repeatedly calling my name (I was his youngest son, whom he loved dearly and pampered, living away from home due to military life). Alarmed, my mother and sisters rushed over to him. His voice grew weaker, his breath grew fast and shallow, and his frail hands waved in front of him, pointing toward the courtyard, whispering my name. A few minutes later, his hands fell limp, and my sister immediately placed a cotton ball under his nose. It was then she realized he had passed.

But his eyes remained open. Tears pooled in his eyes. My mother hurried to wipe his face, but he didn't blink. She knew then that he had left this world for good. Quietly, she closed his eyes and wiped away her own tears...

Fate took my father after nearly eighty years of life! He was just a humble farmer, who only knew the fields in his village, but to me, he was a great man, a giant in the eyes of his family and loved ones!

As the night fell, the wind still howled outside, cold and sharp. The rain began to pour heavily. The night in December was dark and full of sadness...

A few days later, I packed my bag and returned to my unit. The rhythmic rocking of the train lulled me into a restless sleep. I dreamt of my father gazing at me with affection, but not saying a word. The sound of the train's horn jolted me awake, and the morning light broke through. I put my backpack on my shoulder and walked toward my unit. The only thing in my heart now was the longing for my father, the sun that had set, never to shine in my life again!

In a few days, it will be the anniversary of my father's death. My elderly mother, too, joined him several years later... I lit an incense stick at their altar, bowed my head in apology for not being able to return for my father's anniversary due to the pandemic. Tears once again welled up in my eyes, salty and bitter!

I choked up and cried out:
- Father, mother! Please forgive me!

Tonight, the wind has turned cold. I am sure I will meet my father again in my restless dreams!

---
Xu Lang, one winter afternoon

Son Truong.

In my memories, father was always a strong man, the one who could shield our family from the harsh winds and storms of life. But now, as time passes and leaves its marks, with age showing in the wrinkles and spots on his face, I realize, my father has grown old...

We used to be best friends, inseparable companions. Since I was little, I’ve always known his presence, breathing alongside mine every day. People often say that a daughter is like a warm coat, bringing joy and happiness to her father. But to me, he was a superhero, someone who could do anything I dreamt of. Together, we shared precious moments that became lasting memories, and my parents were my driving force to keep pushing forward every day.

But, inevitably, we all grow up. And with that comes the sadness of watching our parents age. My father, once strong and capable, now struggles with his health. His hands and feet are no longer as steady, his hair graying, and his smile no longer as lively.

Life forces us to face many responsibilities. My father carried the weight of these duties to provide for our family, and that has undeniably taken a toll on his health. But as he grows older, I find myself moving farther away from the family home to build a new life, and in doing so, we seem to be drifting apart…

Father begins to hide his persistent pains and long-lasting coughs from me. Mother no longer shares with me the times she has fallen or been hurt. I, too, push aside the hurts and injustices of the world. The closeness we once had seems to be replaced by small secrets we keep from one another...

I suddenly realize, when did my family start to feel like strangers? Is it true that sharing pain with a loved one hurts even more than the physical pain itself? Do we convince ourselves that by keeping our sufferings hidden, we make things easier for them? Is that really the case, Father?

As I find myself in a new place, far from home, I revisit old memories of our three-person family and relive those warm moments. With each passing day, the longing to return home grows stronger. If only we never had to grow up, if only we didn’t have to build our own families, I would wish to stay forever beside my parents, sharing in their joys and supporting them through their pain. But life, as we know, doesn’t align with our desires, does it, Father?

I’ve reached the age of adulthood, and soon, I’ll have my own family. Slowly, the bond we shared as best friends will change. I know you’ll feel mixed emotions when the time comes for me to leave and be with my chosen partner. But Father, no matter how old I get, I’ll always be your little girl! Even if I walk the entire length of this life, you will always be my hero, the one who can do anything in my heart.

So, Father, please stay healthy, just as you always were. Let age and illness never steal the smile from your face. Stay strong, because only then will I find the strength to keep moving forward each day…

Minh Hoài

My father always kept the tradition of planting a pumpkin vine in the garden. He said that the pumpkin is a hardy, easy-going plant that seems to understand the hard work of farmers, second only to rice in the fields. Perhaps that's why pumpkins often yield heavy fruits that are sweet and refreshing, providing joy during family meals. Many pumpkin vines have marked the years of my childhood and adulthood. When father built the bamboo trellis, mother would pull weeds, water the plants, and add more soil and fertilizer for the newly planted pumpkins, and in just a couple of months, we would enjoy the harvest.

The pumpkin vine was planted right in front of the gate, only a few steps away from the yard. From the porch or the distant path, the vine would spread lush and green, with pumpkins hanging and swaying like children playing on a swing. The sound of the bamboo pieces clinking together followed the rhythm of bouncing fruits still young with a faint bitter taste, the rustling sound of stones from a game, and the joyous laughter of my siblings playing beneath the cool shade of the pumpkin vine. “This one’s beautiful, this one too,” we would claim as we stretched our hands and tiptoed to reach the hanging pumpkins, their green skins inviting us. The sunlight could not be contained, it scattered across the vine, filling the space with warmth and joy.

When mother came back from the market, we excitedly rushed to greet her with gifts of pumpkin leaves and fruits, much like the vine’s own anticipation. I vividly remember the image of mother hanging her hat on the handlebars of her bicycle, standing on a chair to cut the pumpkin fruits, her eyes lovingly scanning the vine as if to express gratitude. Father, sitting by the door with a cup of warm tea, leisurely remarked, “The shrimp’s shell stewed with pumpkin / Husband and wife happily enjoy, nodding in approval.” And I, being playful, would reply, “I don’t eat shrimp shells, I prefer the shrimp meat! Or maybe I’ll have clam soup instead.” Mother would smile while slicing the pumpkins. The love between my parents, from humble beginnings to a family with children, had endured many ups and downs in life but still remained warm and unwavering.

When father gently buried the pumpkin seed in the soft, fertile soil and watered it, tiny green sprouts would emerge just days later. Soon, bright green leaves unfurled, and the vines would stretch eagerly toward the sun. Father planted small bamboo poles to guide the vines upward, while mother watered the plants every day. The vines grew strong, wrapping around the bamboo trellis like children being carried by their father, weaving through the bamboo poles. In no time, pumpkin flowers appeared, followed by tiny pumpkins, which matured and hung from the trellis, ready to be harvested.

The pumpkins absorbed the essence of spring. They basked in the golden sunlight, danced with the cool breeze, and reveled in the gentle rain that nourished them. Father’s hands carefully nurtured the pumpkins, and mother harvested them with joy every day. The love from my parents taught my siblings and me the importance of caring for one another, sharing, and looking after each other. The pumpkin vine not only provided shade and delicious fruits but also served as a symbol of the love and care that surrounded us as we grew up.

The pumpkin is a humble and essential part of village life. It is the heart of the farmer’s table, a versatile ingredient for soups, stir-fries, and stuffed dishes. Mother often said that pumpkins help cool the body and aid digestion. Later on, I learned about the many health benefits of pumpkins, such as improving heart health, slowing aging, and relieving stress. These simple yet powerful fruits were always there, year after year, thriving in our garden.

On days when my parents returned home exhausted from the fields, all it took was a bowl of pumpkin soup with some salted eggplant to refresh them. I remember my brother catching a basket of clams from the village river, and father bringing back a basket of shrimp. The pumpkin soup would fill the house with its comforting aroma. Mother would share the pumpkins with neighbors, and their praises for the pumpkin vine made it feel like the vine itself was smiling with pride. Sometimes, when the pumpkins were too much to eat, mother would take them to the market, where they would quickly sell out even before reaching the stall.

There were times when a storm would unexpectedly damage the pumpkin vine, causing the leaves to scatter and the trellis to lean. Father would quickly repair it, and mother would carefully tend to the broken vines. Some fruits had fallen, but the strong pumpkins remained intact. Soon, the vine would bounce back, growing new shoots and leaves. When the pumpkin season was over, father would save some of the mature pumpkins to dry and use as seeds for the next year. These seeds would bring forth a new crop, just as each generation before had cultivated their own harvest. Looking at father preserving the seeds, I realized how much care and love he put into this tradition. I decided to call our pumpkin trellis “The Trellis of Happiness,” for happiness truly starts with the simple, loving acts of life.

Father continued to plant pumpkins every spring, the season when all things come alive. I once asked him why he didn’t plant pumpkins year-round, and he explained that pumpkins don’t thrive in all seasons, growing weak and yielding fewer fruits. He believed in planting them at the right time, just as he believed in nurturing what he loved. The pumpkin vine, like the love he had for us, was carefully tended, growing stronger with each passing season.

Returning home during spring, I picked some herbs and fruits from the garden with father. The pumpkins hung low, ripe for picking. Father explained that he planted the vine so it would be easy to pick, whether standing or sitting. I saw how time had worn on father, his hands less quick, his back bent, but his heart still full of love for the garden. Standing beside the trellis, I felt both joy and a bittersweet sorrow. My parents had worked tirelessly for us, and even now, their care for the garden never ceased.

This spring, the pumpkin soup still tastes just like it did when I was a child. It carries with it the flavors of love, care, and tenderness. Mother’s hands still cook, and father still tends to the garden. The happiness of the pumpkin vine remains, a symbol of family, love, and the simple joys of life. The memories of those shared moments will stay with me forever, reminding me of the sweetness and warmth of home, of family, and of the simple things that make life truly beautiful.

Moct Nhiên

I have often written about my mother, but rarely, if ever, have I written much about my father. It's not that I don't recognize the bias in this, which sometimes causes my father to reflect, but honestly, his life is a long tale, full of both glory and bitterness, that mere words cannot encapsulate. Perhaps, I have only managed to capture glimpses of him through my writing.

My father was never a great man to share grand lessons with me. Nor was he ever perfect, offering only tales of ideal perfection. He was simply an ordinary man, like most fathers, sharing with me the simple truths of life.

When I was little, my father often taught me with metaphors and parables full of wisdom. At the time, I received these teachings with indifference, unaware of how valuable they would later become in navigating life's struggles.

My father was incredibly strict. The thing I feared most was his stick. Actually, it was my mother who wielded the stick. She would use branches from the fence or occasionally a dry twig taken from the firewood she gathered from the fields, but typically it was a cooking stick. After each time I was punished, I would have welts, red and black lines crisscrossing my body. Well, 'spare the rod, spoil the child' they say, but my father hardly ever used the stick. He would go looking for it when the time came for punishment. It didn’t matter what kind of stick it was—what was important was that it was always bigger than my mother’s stick. And when my father punished, he didn’t speak much; he was short and to the point. But I couldn’t even remember his words, as I was too busy...being afraid. So, I had no idea how many times that stick saved me from much worse punishment in the world outside.

My father was also a man of few words. All my years in this world, he never once spoke a kind word to me. In fact, he never once praised me...not even half-heartedly. Instead, there were times when he criticized me. But I was never upset, never felt hurt or discouraged as educators or psychologists might claim, because I understood that my father always loved me deeply. Perhaps, when he saw my shortcomings, his heart was filled with concern. He wanted me to recognize my flaws and improve.

The way he chose to do this was through the art of provoking me, urging my pride and developing my resilience, so that one day he could proudly stand tall, knowing he had entrusted me with all his love and faith. In response, I always strove to show him just how strong I had become—strong, like the way I thought of him.

Yet, I have seen my father cry many times. When a man sheds tears, they are the purest and most sacred tears of life. The first time was when my grandmother passed away. My father, heartbroken, wiped away the tears as my grandmother’s coffin left our home. The second time was at a family dinner on the eve of the New Year, when my older brother couldn’t return home. It was the first time we celebrated the New Year without one of us. My father broke down in tears, naturally, with tears flowing freely down his weathered face. I was stunned, realizing then how fragile he truly was. And the third time was when my youngest sister, the only girl in the family, got married. He cried like a child, leaning against the wall, his emotions spilling out uncontrollably. I was taken aback. I felt so much love for him, and I wondered if his strictness, his stoicism, his outward strength were merely a cover for the fragile feelings inside, allowing him the strength to guide us through life’s trials, to raise us all into maturity, and eventually watch us fly away.

Now, whenever I return from the city, I always find my father sitting in front of the porch. This is usually the spot where my mother would wait, as people often picture a mother waiting for her children. But my mother is always busy with endless tasks that rural women never seem to have an end to. My father sits there, reflecting on life, thinking about his children, waiting. His eyes light up when he sees me, my younger sister, and the grandchildren, all bustling back home to reunite with him. The house fills with laughter. That’s my father, simple and humble in the best possible way.

An Nhân