Top 10 Best Essays Where Little Thu Recounts the Story of the Ivory Comb

Recently, I met Uncle Ba, a comrade of my father's. He handed me a keepsake left by my father before he passed away. It was an ivory comb, one that my father had painstakingly crafted over several months. My father kept his promise of a comb for me, but he couldn’t keep his promise to return. I cried, filled with regret and blaming myself for not recognizing my father when he came home to visit.

That time, my father came home with Uncle Ba. At first, I was scared when I saw my father’s face, scarred by a large, bright red wound. At that moment, I only knew that the man with the scar kept calling, "Thu! It’s me, your father!" In my heart, I felt that he was a complete stranger, not like the person in the photos with my mother. So, I refused to acknowledge him, even though my mother urged me to call him and he tried to show care and love. I wouldn’t call him "father". I was punished for my stubbornness and defiance. My father tried to feed me a delicious piece of fish roe, but I threw it aside. He slapped me, and I ran away to my grandmother’s house.

At my grandmother’s house, I told her everything. She patted my head and shared her stories with me. That’s when I realized my mistake. The father I missed every day was right there in front of me, but I didn’t recognize him. I was rude and rebellious in front of him. I felt so sorry and thought how sad my father must have been because of me. The next morning, when I returned from my grandmother’s, I saw both sides of the family gathered at my house. I hid in a corner, watching my father say goodbye to everyone. He was leaving for the war again. That was when I truly feared losing him. I rushed to him, calling out "father" with all my heart, hugging him tightly and not wanting him to go. I cried bitterly. He promised to bring me a comb when he returned, but he could never give it to me.

We should always love and cherish our fathers, mothers, and family because we never know when it might be the last time we see them. Don’t wait for regret like me, for now, no matter how many times I call "father", there will be no reply.

Recently, I met Uncle Ba, a comrade of my father. He handed me a keepsake – the ivory comb that my father promised before he left. The brutal war kept my father from returning, and I found myself reminiscing about the times I could have met him. I blamed myself for being so indifferent and insensitive towards him.

Since I was little, I had never seen my father. I only knew him from a photo with my mother. One day, my mother said my father was coming home on leave, and I was overjoyed. On that day, while playing in the yard, a man hurried towards me. He looked completely unfamiliar. He called my name: "Thu! It’s me, your father." When he bent down to embrace me, I was terrified by the scar on his face. I ran into the house and called for my mother.

At that moment, I felt he was a stranger, nothing like the man in the photo with my mother. He had a long scar across his face. During his visit, I treated him terribly, refusing to let him sleep with my mother and me. I didn’t follow my mother’s instructions to ask my father for help with the cooking. I even called for him to come eat, but refused to acknowledge him as my father. When he tried to feed me, I rejected it, and he slapped me. Enraged, I ran to my grandmother’s house, crying and telling her everything.

That night, my grandmother explained the scar on my father’s face. She told me it was from an injury caused by the enemy, and how many families were torn apart by the war. I suddenly felt guilty towards my father and returned home, but I didn’t have the courage to call him "father". As I realized he was about to leave for the front, I burst into tears and called out to him. I sobbed in his arms, not wanting him to go, but his duty to the war could not be avoided. He promised to bring me an ivory comb when he returned.

Today, holding the gift from my father, I miss him dearly and regret how my childish thoughts caused him pain. Though my father is gone, his deep love for me is wrapped in this precious gift: the ivory comb.

I returned to the unit as the sun began to set. The staff had already passed through the temporary occupied area safely. Our mission had been successfully completed. The other comrades were resting in their tents. Exhausted, I lay down on a patch of dry palm leaves and gazed up at the sky. The harsh sunlight filtered through the charred coconut leaves, burned by American chemicals, causing me to squint. The southern sky was beautiful, yet the Americans had cruelly destroyed it. I reached into my pocket and pulled out the ivory comb. As I let my hair down, I gently combed it. The motion felt soothing, just like when my father used to comb my hair. The wind rustled the young palm leaves, and memories flooded back clearly before me. Holding the comb close to my chest, I thought of my father, feeling both joy and profound regret.

Throughout my life, I don't think I will ever forget that memorable afternoon. Like every other afternoon, the children and I gathered to play in the treehouse. Suddenly, I heard a loud call: "Thu! Come here!". I was startled and turned around. Before me stood a stranger in worn military uniform, with a long scar across his face, red and frightening, making him look both terrifying and distant. Before I could process it, the man stretched out his arms slowly toward me, stepped forward, and spoke in a trembling voice:

- It's your father, Thu!

This time, my ears didn't deceive me—he had indeed called himself my "father" and repeated it. My ears rang, and my mind went dark, bombarded by the question: Why? Why? This man didn’t look like my father at all! He was moving closer, and in fear, I ran as fast as I could, shouting: "Mom! Mom!".

Contrary to my expectations, when my mother saw him, she didn’t chase him away but instead began to cry, helped him with his backpack, and said:

- Has your father come back?

I hid behind my mom. My mind was filled with so many questions: How could this man be my father? It’s impossible! My father is gentle and dignified, not at all like this! I thought this, so no matter how much my mother insisted, I couldn’t believe it was my father and refused to acknowledge him. The following days were a silent but fierce battle between me and the man I considered a stranger. Strangely, he didn’t leave the house and stayed close to me, comforting and trying to pamper me. The more he did, the more I despised him. My mother, seemingly unaware of my feelings, called him "father" and so, at every meal, instead of calling him, she ordered me:

- Thu, go call your father to eat!

"Call him to eat? No way!" – I thought to myself, and argued with my mother:

- Just ask him yourself.

My mother immediately grew angry and threatened to hit me with the kitchen chopsticks. I reluctantly called him but stuck to my stance and shouted:

- Come eat!

I yelled it, but he remained still, like he didn’t hear me at all. Frustrated, I called again, albeit hesitantly:

- The food is ready!

This time, he slowly turned and looked at me, shaking his head gently, with a faint smile. The meal passed, and I remained silent, eating while my mother and the man conversed. The man, still with his scarred face, kept watching me intently. At times, I caught his gaze and felt something unfamiliar in his eyes. Actually, if I looked closely, he wasn’t as terrifying as I had initially thought. Yet, he still didn’t resemble my father in the photos at all.

By the second day, the man had still not left the house. Everywhere I went, he followed, making me feel increasingly uncomfortable. My mother continued to insist he was my father and scolded me for being stubborn. Indeed, I was being stubborn because this man was clearly not my father. By noon, when my mother had to run to the market, I wanted to go with her, but she wouldn’t allow it. So, I stayed home with the man. I didn’t go outside but stayed in the kitchen with the rice pot, lost in thought. As I watched the flame flicker, I suddenly heard a sizzle. The rice was boiling, and I had to drain it. But the pot was too big for me to move. When I turned around, I saw the man standing next to me. I gave him a desperate look and cried out:

- The rice is boiling, please help drain it!

I was genuinely confused and panicked. If I didn’t drain the rice, it would become mushy, and my mother would scold me when she returned. I called out again:

- It’s going to be ruined if we don’t drain it!

But why did he stay silent? Did he not want to help because I didn’t call him "father"?

No... no... I absolutely couldn’t call him "father". I, Thu, wasn’t the kind of person who could be easily swayed! After a moment of hesitation, an idea suddenly came to me: "If I can’t move the pot, I’ll use the ladle to scoop out the water, one scoop at a time. Brilliant!" I did it, but my anger remained, and I cursed him in my mind. Why didn’t he help me when he saw me struggling? He was so heartless!

The second day’s meal would have passed like the first if...

As I sat down to finish my meal, he suddenly picked up a piece of golden fish roe and placed it in my bowl. At that moment, I felt a stir in my heart. After all, besides my mother, it was the first time an elder like my father had served me food. I stared at my bowl, then suddenly, without thinking, I forcefully pushed the fish roe out of my bowl, causing rice to scatter across the table. Then, I felt a sharp pain on my backside!

- Why are you so stubborn? Huh?

He must have been really angry. I stayed silent, not saying a word. This was the first time I had been hit so hard—my mother, even when she hit me, never did it like this! I wanted to cry loudly, but I told myself not to show weakness in front of him. I picked the fish roe back into the bowl and walked out of the house to tell my grandmother. When I saw her, I ran into her arms and cried bitterly, pouring out all my frustrations. Grandma was the one who spoiled me the most, and I always confided in her. In the afternoon, my mother came to pick me up, but I refused to go. I didn’t want to see that terrifying man anymore. I insisted on staying with Grandma.

That night... The frogs outside by the canal croaked loudly, but I couldn’t sleep. I was in turmoil. Who was that man? Why did he insist that I call him "father"? Why did he get angry and hit me? Grandma seemed to sense my inner turmoil and said:

- Thu, why don’t you accept your father? That man is your father, Ba Sau.

- No, Grandma! Ba Sau is nothing like him!

I answered.

- How is he not like Ba Sau? Could it be because he’s been fighting for so long, and now he looks older?

To prove my point, I said:

- Ba Sau didn’t have such a terrifying scar on his cheek, Grandma.

Grandma smiled and patted my head, saying:

- That’s your Ba Sau. He was injured by the enemy during the war, which is why he has that scar.

Grandma’s words kept ringing in my head. Oh my God! So that was really my Ba Sau? How could I have rejected him and even spoken rudely? After years of longing to meet him, when he finally returned, I didn’t recognize him. I felt so regretful. What could I do now?

The next morning, Grandma woke up early and said:- Today, Ba Sau is leaving again. Will you go say goodbye to him, Thu?

I nodded and followed her. When we got to the house, I saw a crowd of relatives, from both sides of the family. Unlike before, my arrival didn’t attract anyone’s attention, not even my parents. My father was busy with guests, and my mother was preparing things. I felt abandoned and quietly stood by the door, sometimes hiding in the corner of the house, observing everyone. I was anxious, wondering if I should run up to call my father before he left, but I felt too shy and stayed still.

When the time came for him to leave, he looked around, searching for me. But he didn’t run to hug me; he simply stood there, gazing at me with tenderness. My heart stirred, and I wanted to run to him and embrace him, but my feet wouldn’t move. He gently spoke to me:

- It’s okay! I’ll go now, my child.

His voice was so loving. That voice urged me on:

- Father... fa... father!

I shouted and ran to hug him tightly. I held him so close, feeling an overwhelming warmth. I had yearned to call him "father" and hold him for the past eight years. The thought that he was leaving filled me with fear, and I cried out:

- Father! Don’t go! Stay with me!

He too had tears in his eyes and said:

- I’ll come back to you, my child.

- No!

I cried out, not wanting to let him go. I clung to him as tightly as I could. Everyone, including Grandma, tried to comfort me. Grandma said:

- You’re such a brave girl! Let your father go, and he’ll bring you a comb when he comes back.

Knowing I couldn’t keep him anymore, I let go and gave him one last hug. He was going to fight for his country. He would be back with a comb for me. I wiped my tears and waved him goodbye, not knowing that this would be the last time I would see him. In a battle, he was mortally wounded and died. Ba Sau’s comrade, Uncle Ba, gave me his keepsake: the ivory comb with the inscription: "Love and memories, Thu, your father." Looking at the carving on the small, delicate comb, I burst into tears. Ba Sau was gone...

Fifty years have passed, and the stubborn little Thu has grown into a veteran. For fifty years, I’ve tried to live well, not to dishonor my father, Ba Sau, and for fifty years, I’ve missed him endlessly. For me, the ivory comb will always be a treasured keepsake, a lifelong companion. I believe that, in the world beyond, Ba Sau is smiling, happy and proud of the stubborn daughter I once was!

Happiness - this is what humanity has been seeking for so long, yet few truly understand a simple yet profound truth: happiness is right before our eyes. For me, little Thu, it has always been the longing to reunite with my beloved father, a happiness greater than anything else in my life. However, like the truth itself, the happiness was right before me – my dear father standing right in front of me... yet I failed to recognize it, and now, all I have left is regret. That happiness is now nothing but a distant memory because my father has gone to a faraway place... The memory of the meeting and farewell with my father will remain with me for the rest of my life. This is how the story goes...

According to my mother, when I turned one, my father had to go to war in response to the call of the Party and President Hồ Chí Minh. At that time, I was too young to remember my father's image. For the next eight years, I lived under the care and protection of my mother. But even that wasn’t enough for me; I longed for my father's love, just like the other children my age. I often heard my mother tell stories about my father's time in the battlefield, and I felt so proud of him – my hero. When I turned eight, a miracle happened: my father returned. When my mother shared the incredible news, I was filled with excitement, running out the door to meet him. In the distance, I saw a tall man in a soldier's uniform, but his face bore a large scar that looked frightening. He ran towards me and shouted, 'It's me, your father!' In shock, I ran inside to call my mother. Strangely, my mother hugged that man joyfully. How could she smile with another man so soon after my father left? These thoughts filled my young mind, thoughts that seemed too mature for me. The man stayed at our house with another person. During that time, my mother would often scold me and tell me to call him 'father', but I couldn’t. How could I call a stranger my father? I refused!

Feeling sorrowful, I stared at a photograph of my parents together. I only had one father, and that would never change. For three days, that man kept annoying me, and though I was frustrated, I dared not express my anger. I didn't care about him, so I treated him rudely, rejecting all his attempts to show affection. One day, I threw a fish egg he offered to me, and he hit me hard on the backside, scolding me loudly, 'Why are you so stubborn?' I felt humiliated, but I wasn't the kind of girl who would cry easily. I lowered my head, picked up the fish egg, placed it in the bowl, and went to my grandmother's house. My mother later told me that my father was so upset, his face pale and his scar redder than ever. Thinking back, I hated myself, feeling so sorry for my father. He only wanted me to call him 'father' but it was so difficult... Oh, how foolish I was. I didn’t understand the hidden smiles, the thoughtful headshakes, and the teary eyes of my father. He was saddened by my stubbornness. At this moment, my heart aches, but all of it seems meaningless now...

The story continues when I went to my grandmother's house, where she told me about the brutalities of war, the atrocities committed by the French, which had torn apart the happiness of many families, including ours. It was because of them that my father's once gentle face was now disfigured... I hated war more than ever. That night, I couldn’t sleep, tossing and turning, wishing for the morning to come so I could see my father off. The next day, I went back home with my grandmother. I could only stand in a corner of the house, watching my father talk and laugh with others. I felt abandoned, lost, and alone. I thought my father was still angry with me for being a disobedient daughter, but then he looked at me with sad, heavy eyes and quietly said, 'It’s time for me to go, my child.' In that moment, the love of a father stirred within me, and I called out, 'Father!' This sacred word that I had kept hidden in my heart for so long. Each word seemed to stop time. Everyone froze in place. In an instant, I rushed to my father, embracing him and kissing him all over. Sadly, our reunion was also a farewell, as my father had to leave for his mission. I didn’t want him to go, I wished time could stand still so I could savor the warmth of his love that I had longed for over the past eight years... With advice from others, I finally let my father go, with a promise that he would bring me the ivory comb on his next visit. At that moment, my eight-year-old self never imagined that it would be the last time I saw my father. He left and never came back... The pain was unbearable...

Now, I have grown, matured, and am no longer the stubborn child I once was. I have learned to think and contribute to society. In my heart, I still revere the image of my beloved father and reserve a special place to cherish that boundless love. Another space in my heart is dedicated to my dear homeland. Following in my father’s footsteps on the revolutionary path, I have become a courageous and resilient liaison officer. I am not alone because my father is always with me, guiding me. He is the light that illuminates my way, the warmth that comforts me in the cold forests and mountains... With my father, I have the greatest happiness in my life.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out the ivory comb. As I let my hair down, I gently combed through it. It felt so soft, just like when my father used to comb my hair. Holding the comb close to my chest, memories from the past flooded back. I thought of my father, feeling both joy and deep regret. My family lived in Cù Lao Giêng, Chợ Mới district, Long Châu Sa province, near a small canal that flowed into the Mekong River. My father left to fight in the resistance in early 1946, after our province was occupied. Following the signing of the Geneva Accords in 1954, the French withdrew from Vietnam. The Americans then replaced the French in the South, increasing their support for the puppet government in Saigon, prolonging the war in Vietnam. The South continued its fight against American imperialism. My father was a resistance fighter. He was tasked with staying behind in the South to strengthen the revolution, stay connected with the people, and lead the struggle against the American invaders. To protect the revolution, one night, my father and a group of comrades moved to a new base. When my father left, I was barely one year old. As I grew older, I only heard my mother tell stories about him and saw his face in a small photo she gave me. I would stare at his picture every day, longing for the day when my mother and I could visit him at the base. Many times, my mother went alone to visit him, but I begged to go with her, yet she refused, saying the journey was too long and dangerous with the secret police always watching. So I waited, day by day. Every time my mother came back from the base, she would tell me stories about my father. She would always say that he was healthy and missed me greatly. He would ask her to take good care of me and teach me to write. My mother couldn't read, so every time she said this, she would smile sadly. She wanted me to learn to read, but no one in our village knew how. Years passed. My longing for my father stretched out like the ebb and flow of the river. The high and low tides came and went, but my father still hadn't returned. Seven years later, my father finally came back. One morning, while I was sitting outside, I saw him return. That was a day I could never forget. My heart was bursting with excitement and anticipation. Before the boat could even dock, my father jumped out, causing the boat to rock dangerously. - Thu! My daughter. I froze in shock, staring at him wide-eyed. My father looked at me, his eyes filled with tears. With his hands outstretched, he slowly walked toward me, his voice trembling: - It's me, your father! I stood there, confused and unsure. “Could it really be him?” I thought. His eyes were so familiar, but the man in front of me looked different from the one in the photo my mother had shown me. It was the first time I had seen him, and I couldn't be sure. Even the smallest difference made me doubt. I blinked and then ran off, calling for my mother. After all those years of longing, my father expected me to be overjoyed, to run to him and embrace him. But the reality was harsh. He stood there, disappointed, his arms hanging by his sides, watching me run away. Because of the long journey, my father could only stay for three days. In those brief days, I disappointed him completely. At night, I refused to let him sleep with my mother. Even though my father tried to lie down beside her, I would roll off the bed, stand on the ground, and pull at his arm, trying to drag him away. When that didn't work, I bit him so hard it hurt. My mother scolded me, but I didn’t care. In the midst of war, right and wrong were hard to tell. My mother never lied to me, but I didn’t fully trust her. My father yielded to me and slept on a bamboo cot. The marks of my teeth still lingered on his arm when he left. Throughout the day, my father never went far. He was always there, trying to comfort me. But the more he tried, the more I pushed him away. I refused to call him father. My mother told me it was him and asked me to call him 'father,' but I refused. I became angry with her as well. One time, when she threatened to hit me, I didn't care. I refused to say the word “father.” My father looked at me, shaking his head and smiling softly. Perhaps his pain was so deep that he couldn’t cry, so he just smiled instead. The next day, while my mother went out to buy food, she told me to ask my father for help if I needed anything. Maybe she wanted to put me in a situation where I would be forced to ask my father for help. I said nothing, just kept busy in the kitchen. When the rice pot started boiling, I opened the lid and stirred it with chopsticks. The pot was too large for me to lift to drain the water. When I looked up, I saw my father sitting silently. I hesitated, knowing that if the rice boiled over, my mother would scold me. I glanced back at my father, then at the pot, and finally, I called for help. But I still spoke coldly. My father stayed silent, pretending not to hear. When Uncle Ba mentioned that the rice would be ruined, I became even more anxious. He suggested I ask my father to help, but I refused. I was too young to carry the pot, so I stood on a stool and used a ladle to pour the water out. I muttered angrily to myself. At mealtime, my father served me a piece of fish roe and told me to eat. He looked at me with such tenderness. I didn’t care. I hated him at that moment. Because of him, my mother was upset with me. He made things difficult for me. I angrily picked up my chopsticks, poked the roe, and suddenly flung it off my plate, sending rice flying everywhere. I was so angry that I didn’t even think. My father struck me on the bottom and shouted: - Why are you so stubborn? I sat still, my head lowered. My father was only trying to be kind, but because I was so distrustful, I rejected him at every turn. I don’t know why I acted this way. Only I understood my feelings. My actions were stubborn and detestable. If I had spoken up, my father and mother would have understood, and they would have explained it to me. I took the roe, placed it back on my plate, and silently stood up, walking away from the table. I didn’t want to eat anymore. No one cared for me! I would go to my grandmother’s house. I jumped into the boat, deliberately making noise to let everyone know, and then I paddled across the river. I went to complain to my grandmother. My mother came to try and console me, but I refused to return. She told my grandmother about my behavior, and my grandmother was deeply saddened. That night, lying in my grandmother’s arms, she asked why I treated my father this way. That’s when all my emotions came pouring out. I whispered to my grandmother, 'The man who came home looks so much like my father, but he’s different. He has a scar on his face, but my father doesn’t.' That’s when my grandmother understood everything. She held me tightly and whispered, 'Your father fought in a cruel war. That scar is from the wounds he received in battle. He fought bravely, risking his life for the peace of our village, for the peace of the country. He has returned.' Now, I understood everything. I felt such deep regret. If only I had spoken up sooner. If only someone had understood my feelings and told me the truth. I lay there, sighing, thinking to myself that I would apologize to my father. I would beg for his forgiveness and call him 'father.' I would hug him and tell him everything. But tomorrow, he would leave. The worry kept me awake all night. The next morning, I went with my grandmother back home. Relatives from both sides of the family were there, and my father had to entertain them. My mother was busy preparing his things. She carefully folded his clothes and packed his belongings into a small bag. I felt abandoned, standing in the corner of the room, watching everyone surround my father. I wanted to speak to him, but I was too shy. There were too many people. I didn’t have the courage to approach him. I thought about how I had acted in the past few days. Surely my father wouldn’t be angry with me, would he? He wouldn’t be mad, right? I stood on tiptoe, about to run to him, but then he turned away to greet a guest. I stood there, waiting. But my father finished getting ready. I saw him put his bag on his shoulder and shake hands with everyone, which meant he was about to leave. I was terrified. I wanted to scream, 'Father, I’m here! I’m sorry!' But something kept me rooted to the spot, unable to move. Until my father looked back at me. His eyes were filled with affection and sadness. I felt a wave of joy and excitement rise in my chest. - It’s time for me to go, dear. - My father whispered. That simple statement erased the distance between us. It shattered the darkness that had clouded my heart. It reconnected me with my father. I had waited for this moment all morning. Overcome with joy, I cried out, 'Father...a...a...!' My voice tore through the silence, breaking the stillness that had lingered for years. No one expected me to accept my father like this. It was the 'father' I had suppressed for so long. The word burst out of me, and I ran to him as fast as I could, jumping up and throwing my arms around his neck, crying uncontrollably. I didn’t want him to leave. I couldn’t let him go. My arms clung to him tightly. I kissed him all over – his hair, his neck, his shoulders, and even the long scar on his face. It was that scar that had kept me from accepting him. It was because of that scar that my father had suffered these past few days. I kissed the scar repeatedly, reminding myself to love my father even more. At that moment, my father was too moved to speak. He cried. He wiped his tears with a handkerchief, kissed my hair, and comforted me. He promised that he would return with a beautiful comb for me. Then my father had to leave. The war between the two sides was still ongoing. My father didn’t know if he would stay or have to go North for reinforcements. He had to return to his unit to receive orders. Everyone gathered around to comfort him. As he left, I kissed him again and reminded him to bring me a comb. He promised that he would return with one for me. After that, my father returned to the East. He remained in the South, continuing his work with the revolution. After the peace agreement, the Americans reneged on their promises and escalated the war. I never heard from my father again. Years later, one afternoon, someone came to tell my mother that my father had died. The news hit me like a blow, and I cried endlessly. My mother cried too. She tried to hide the truth from me, but I had already heard. It was said that during a fierce raid, my father was shot in the chest by an enemy bullet. He fought valiantly until his last breath. His comrades secretly buried him in the jungle. He left behind a small ivory comb with the inscription: 'Love and remembrance for Thu, my daughter.' Even now, when I hold that comb close to my heart, I vow to live worthy of my father, my mother, and my beloved country. The enemy may be brutal, and the war may separate me from my father, but it can never destroy the love I have for him or the love for my country.

Looking at the ivory comb in my hand, even though decades have passed, the past is still etched deeply in my heart as if it were just yesterday.

When I was not yet one year old, my father had to go away to fight in the war. My mother tried several times to visit him but could not take me along. So, my father only saw me through a small photo, and I only saw him through a photo he took with my mother. My father looked so handsome and kind. When I was eight, one day I was playing in the hut under the mango tree in front of the house when I suddenly heard someone call. I turned around. It was a man with a long scar on his cheek. The scar was bright red, twitching, looking frightening. The man reached out his hand and slowly walked toward me, his voice trembling as he repeated:

- It’s me, your father!

- It’s me, your father!

I was stunned and didn’t understand anything. I looked at the man walking beside him, asking, is this my father? No, no, it can’t be! My father is the one in the picture, kind and handsome, not this frightening man. My father didn’t have a scar like that. Suddenly, the strange man made me think of ghosts and demons… all the scariest things. I had to find my mother, she would save me and chase him away. So, I ran inside, shouting: “Mom! Mom!” The man stopped, his face darkened, and he no longer dared to reach out toward me.

Mom came out, and I thought she would send the man away, but she ran to hug him, crying, and telling me to “call your father, dear.” No, that was not my father, my father wasn’t like that. He dared to pretend to be my father, I hated him. I swore to myself that I would never call him father. I made that promise to myself.

The man stayed in our house for three days. The more I tried to avoid him, the more he tried to comfort me. I hated his actions. He was probably hoping I would call him “father,” but no, I would only call my real father that. Even when my mother asked me to call him in for dinner, I refused.

- Let your mom call him.

My mom got angry and grabbed a cooking stick to hit me, so I had to call him but only said:

- Come eat!

He just sat there. I called out again:

- The rice is ready!

But he still didn’t turn around. Fine, then. I was frustrated.

- I’ve called, but he doesn’t listen.

Then, he turned back, looking at me with a slight shake of his head and a smile. He smiled so kindly. I ignored him and kept my promise.

The next day, while cooking, my mom went out to buy food. She asked me to call the man for help if I needed anything. No, I would never ask him. But then something happened. The pot of rice was too big, and I couldn’t pour the water out. What should I do now? I thought of the man. I realized he was actually kind in many ways. I looked at him and wanted to ask for help. But I couldn’t call him “father.” He was a good man, but not my father. I called out:

- The rice is boiling, can you help me pour it out?

Uncle Ba – the man traveling with him – told me:

- You have to say “Father, can you help me pour it out?” You should ask him like that.

But I didn’t care and called again:

- The rice is boiling, it will burn!

He just sat there. Uncle Ba warned me:

- If the rice burns, your mom will punish you. Why don’t you call your father? Can’t you say “father” just once?

Yes, I couldn’t call that man “father” because he wasn’t my father. I reserved the word “father” for my real father only. The rice kept boiling loudly. What should I do? Neither he nor Uncle Ba was willing to help. My eyes caught the ladle. That’s it. I carefully grabbed the ladle and scooped out the water. It was a relief. He thought I would give in and call him “father.” Not a chance.

At dinner, he put a big piece of fish roe into my bowl. Normally, I really liked fish roe. I looked at it. If only my father were the one to serve it to me. I thought to myself, but then I realized he was not my father. I pushed the roe aside, rice spilling everywhere. He raised his hand to hit me and yelled:

- Why are you so stubborn?

I suddenly realized how rude my actions were. I was misbehaving. But it was because I didn’t want to accept him as my father. If I accepted the roe, it would be like accepting him as my father. I couldn’t sit at the table with him anymore. I put the roe back into the bowl, quietly stood up, and walked away from the meal. I went down to the riverbank, jumped into the boat, and made noise with the oar, then paddled across the river. I went to my grandmother’s house. I was going to tell her about the frightening man. I felt so angry. What right did he have to hit me? But I held back and didn’t cry until I got to my grandmother’s house. I didn’t want to cry in front of him, that would make me weak before him. My mother came to comfort me to come home, but I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to be near him anymore. I hated him. Maybe my mother didn’t want to upset the family, so she didn’t force me. That night, my grandmother asked me:

- Why don’t you accept him as your father?

I snapped:

- He’s not my father!

- How do you know? Your father has been gone for so long, did you forget?

No, I never forgot my father. I always remembered him. During the days he was away, I would always take his picture out to look at. How could I forget?

- He doesn’t look like the man in the picture with your mom.

I defended myself.

- Why not? Your father just looks older now.

No, it wasn’t because my father was older. He didn’t have a scar like that.

I confessed.

Grandmother laughed loudly. The laugh left me stunned and curious. She told me about the crimes the French soldiers had committed at the camp. It turned out that the scar came from when my father fought the French, who shot him. The French were cruel. Suddenly, I felt sorry for my father, but it was too late, he had already left. The next morning, I asked my grandmother to take me home.

There were many people at home. My father was receiving guests. My mother was busy preparing things for my father. Everyone had their own tasks. Meanwhile, I stood silently in a corner. I looked closely at the man I had once coldly avoided. Aside from the long scar, everything else on his face resembled the photo of my father. That was my father. I had made him sad.

After all those years of waiting, it was only when my father was leaving that I recognized him… Father… Oh no, my father has already put his bag on his shoulder… He’s shaking hands with everyone… He’s looking at me… Father… From deep within, the word “father” urged me, but it caught in my throat. Father was leaving. Would he come back? No, I had to stop him. He looked at me with sad eyes and gently said:

- I’m going now, dear.

So, my father forgave me. He still accepted me as his daughter. He was so kind, I couldn’t lose him again.

- Father… ah… father!

I screamed after all the suppression. I rushed to hug my father tightly. I cried:

- Father! Don’t leave me! Stay at home with me!

My father lifted me up. His arms were so warm. I kissed my father’s face, even the scar. I kissed him all over, like I wanted to apologize for everything, especially for the scar.

- Father, come back to me.

- No.

I shouted. I was afraid my father wouldn’t keep his promise. I clung to him with both my arms and legs. My mother said:

- Thu! Let your father go. It’s all been arranged. He’ll come back.

Grandmother comforted me:

- You’re strong! Let your father go, and he’ll bring you a comb.

I knew I couldn’t stop him. I pouted:

- Father, come back! Bring me a comb. Please, Father. But I didn’t really need the comb. I only needed my father. And so, my father left.

Years passed, and one day, when I was around eighteen, I heard the news that my father had passed away. I was devastated. I cried a lot. But I knew it was inevitable, all because of the war and those cruel invaders. I swore revenge, and later, I worked as a liaison.

One day, while intercepting the enemy, I met Uncle Ba. After a few words of introduction, he recognized me. He trembled and handed me the ivory comb, keeping his promise to my father. I was both surprised and touched. I knew my father had passed away, but I didn’t expect him to have kept his promise to me – the comb. I accepted the comb as a treasured keepsake. It was my father’s love, his sacred paternal bond. Uncle Ba lied to me, telling me my father was still alive. I knew he said that to avoid making me sad. My heart ached when I thought of my father.

But the meeting was brief, and soon, each of us went our separate ways. Before he left, Uncle Ba suddenly said goodbye:

- Alright, I’m going now, dear.

It shocked me. Those words were the same ones I heard more than ten years ago. Now, they resurfaced in my heart. A strange warmth filled me.

After the country was unified, I met Uncle Ba again. He told me about my father. He said that since making the comb for me, my father would always take it out to comb it, making it shinier, so he wouldn’t miss me. Before he left, my father couldn’t say anything. But his eyes told Uncle Ba that he needed to bring the comb to me. Even before his death, my father still thought of me. I will never forget my father.

For me, a child born during wartime, experiencing the complete sense of family with all its members was not an easy task. I could only imagine my father through old photographs.

My mother told me that when I turned one, my father had to go to the front lines. Since I was too young, I couldn’t remember him clearly. Throughout my childhood, it was my mother who provided protection and care. Looking at the photos of my parents and listening to stories about my father, I felt proud of him, for he was a hero.

At the age of eight, my father was allowed to visit home. I anxiously awaited his return and would look out for him every day. One day, I spotted a soldier walking towards me from a distance, but his face had a long scar. He hugged me and said, 'It’s me, your father.' Startled, I ran to my mother for reassurance. To my surprise, my mother joyfully embraced the man and treated him as if he were my father. But this man couldn’t be my father—my father didn’t have such a scar on his face.

One day, I angrily threw a fish egg at the man’s face, and he slapped me, shouting, 'Why are you so stubborn?' Hurt and upset, I ran away from the dinner table, seeking refuge at my grandmother’s house, where I told her about the incident. She laughed and told me about the harsh and cruel days of war that had torn many families apart, including ours. It was because of the war that my father’s face bore that scar. Now, I understood why my father no longer resembled the man in the photograph. I felt remorse for the way I had treated him.

The next day, I went back with my grandmother, but seeing my father packing his things, preparing to leave, I felt abandoned, lost, and confused. It seemed like he was angry with me, but no—it wasn’t that. He looked at me with sorrowful eyes and said, 'It’s time for me to go, my dear.' In that moment, I cried out 'Father!' The sacred word that had been hidden in my heart for so long. Time seemed to freeze, and I ran to hug him tightly, not wanting to let go. But, as a soldier, he had to leave for the battlefield.

Before he left, he promised to make me an ivory comb when he returned. I wiped my tears, agreed, and said goodbye. The war, with its sorrowful separations, none of us knew that would be the last time I saw him. During a battle, my father was severely wounded and died. Later, my father’s comrade, Uncle Ba, handed me the ivory comb, inscribed with the words: 'For Thu, my dear daughter.' The loving words my father had engraved for me overwhelmed me, and I broke down in tears.

Every time I hold the ivory comb to brush my hair, I remember the memories of my father. It is the only memory of him in my life. This comb was the first and last gift he ever gave me.

My name is Thu, and I live near a small canal that leads to the Mekong River. Before I turned one, my father went off to join the resistance in the Eastern battlefield. I missed him dearly, but whenever my mother went to visit him, she went alone, fearing for her safety, so I wasn’t allowed to go with her. When I was eight years old, I was playing in a small hut in front of the house when I saw a boat with two men approaching. My father jumped off the boat, running and calling my name, saying 'I’m your father!' However, I didn’t recognize him. He looked so different, and I was confused and frightened, so I screamed for my mother. Afterward, the two men stayed at our house. My mother insisted that I call the man 'father,' but I refused. I was stubborn and silent, speaking only to him in short words during those days.

At dinner that day, my father placed a large piece of fish roe in my bowl. I didn’t want it, so I used my chopsticks to push it away. He slapped me, but I didn’t cry. After the meal, I went to my grandmother’s house. That night, I told her that the man couldn’t be my father, because my father didn’t have such a large scar on his face. My grandmother explained that I had misunderstood. My father was still my father, and the scar was from a wound he got while fighting. I felt deeply remorseful for making my father sad. The next morning, I hurried home, but it was too late—my father was about to leave.

I longed for my father as I watched everyone around him. When he turned to speak to me, I could no longer hold back my feelings. I cried out 'Father!' and ran to hug him, wrapping my arms tightly around him, not wanting him to leave. I sobbed, saying, 'Father, come back! Please bring me a comb!' I said goodbye to him. In late 1958, my mother and I received news that my father had died in battle. I buried my pain and decided to become a messenger to assist the officers and soldiers. It was then that I met the man who had come back home with my father years ago. He handed me the ivory comb that my father had made for me. When I saw the comb, tears silently streamed down my face.

Looking at the inscription on the comb, 'For Thu, my dear daughter,' I loved and missed my father so much. I always carried the comb with me, keeping it close so that I could feel as though my father was always by my side, protecting and comforting me.

My family lives in a riverine area, near a small canal that leads to the Mekong River. It has been just my mother and me, relying on each other for the past eight years, ever since my father went off to join the resistance when I was only one year old.

One day, like any other, I was playing in a hut with my friends under the mango tree in our front yard when suddenly a boat approached. An unfamiliar man with a large scar on his face (who turned out to be my father) was in the boat, accompanied by another man (my father’s friend, Uncle Ba). The man with the scar jumped out, running toward me, calling out 'Thu! My daughter.' When I heard my name, I froze, eyes wide in confusion, not knowing what to do.

He repeated, 'It’s your father! It’s your father!' but I still couldn’t recognize him. I was terrified, and with a pale face, I ran and screamed for my mother. My mother told me they would stay at our house for three days, and she insisted that I call the scarred man 'father,' but I refused. My father in the photographs didn’t have a scar like that. My mother tried to make me call him for dinner, but I refused to even address him. Even when I asked him to help me lift the pot of rice, I still refused to call him 'father.'

I was stubborn and defiant. At lunch, when the scarred man placed food in my bowl, I pushed it away with my chopsticks. He slapped me on the backside, but I didn’t cry. I felt humiliated, so I silently stood up, not eating, and swam across the river to my grandmother’s house. I told her about the two men. She asked why I didn’t recognize my father. I explained that he didn’t look like the man in the pictures. But I was wrong. That man was indeed my father, and the scar came from a wound he got while fighting. I felt so guilty and regretted my behavior. The next morning, I planned to go back and apologize, but when I returned home, I saw many people gathered. They had come to see my father off. I stood quietly in the corner, watching him in silence.

Finally, when my father turned to say goodbye, I rushed to him, shouting 'Father!' I hugged him tightly, terrified that he would leave. He promised to buy me a comb when he returned. But he never came back. My father died on the battlefield, leaving behind an ivory comb that he had carved himself for me.

When I received the comb from Uncle Ba, I was overwhelmed with emotion. I wished that if there had been no war, my father and I would never have been separated, and I wouldn’t have lost him like this.