Top 9 Best Essays Writing as Mr. Sau Retelling the Short Story 'The Ivory Comb'

I, along with a friend named Ba, volunteered to join the resistance near home. For several years, I had been away from my family, longing to see my dear child. When my wife visited, the dangerous border road prevented me from allowing my child to accompany her, so I could only admire my daughter through a photograph. When I was granted leave, I was filled with excitement and anticipation to reunite with my beloved daughter. On my way home, my heart raced with emotion. I spotted a young girl with shoulder-length hair, wearing black pants and a white t-shirt, playing under the shade of a mango tree in front of our house. I knew instantly that it was my daughter. Without waiting for the boat to dock, I jumped off and ran towards her to meet her. My heart swelled as I called, 'Thu, my dear.' But it seemed that my anticipation would not be met just yet. As I opened my arms to embrace her, Thu stared at me, wide-eyed, with a confused expression. My voice trembled with sadness as I said, 'Thu, it's your father.' She continued to look at me, blinking in disbelief, as if wondering who I was. Her face turned pale, and she ran inside, screaming, 'Grandma! Mom!' My heart shattered as I watched her go, filled with unbearable pain. My longed-for reunion was met with her indifference and coldness. I felt like I was losing my strength, unable to stand anymore, as I collapsed, choking on my sobs. During my time at home, Thu refused to recognize me as her father. I stayed close, hoping to shower her with love to make up for the years apart, but no matter how hard I tried, she would remain distant and cold. The more I tried to care for her, the further she pushed me away. I longed to hear her call me 'Dad,' but she refused to speak those words. One evening, as my wife was preparing dinner, she asked Thu to call me to eat. Thu refused, saying, 'Mom can call him, why should I?' My wife grew angry and threatened to scold her with the chopsticks, but Thu casually replied, 'Come eat dinner.' I heard my daughter’s voice, but I stayed silent, hoping she would finally say, 'Dad, come eat.' But, once again, I was disappointed when she called out from the kitchen, 'Dinner's ready.' Still, I didn’t move, and I could sense her frustration as she turned to my wife and said, 'I called him, but he won't listen.' I couldn’t find the words, only offering a weak smile as I silently watched her. One day, while my wife was preparing for my departure, she told Thu that if she needed anything, she should call me for help. Yet, Thu remained silent, seated quietly by the stove. When the rice began to boil over, I thought this would be the moment for her to ask for help, but instead, she shouted, 'Help me pour the water, the rice is boiling!' I urged her to call me 'Dad' first, but she ignored my request and continued, 'The rice is boiling, hurry, or it'll turn mushy.' Desperate, I warned her, 'Do you want to be punished? If the rice turns mushy, your mother will scold and punish you.' I tried to reason with her, hoping she would call me 'Dad' just once. But she insisted, 'The rice is boiling, hurry!' I tried once more, 'You should call me 'Dad' to help.' Still, she refused. Eventually, she managed to do it herself, muttering under her breath, possibly blaming me for not helping. During dinner, I tried to give her the biggest fish roe, but she pushed it aside with her chopsticks, spilling rice everywhere. Frustrated and caught off guard, I slapped her on the back. Immediately, I regretted it. I yelled, 'Why are you so stubborn?' I expected her to cry, run away, or get upset, but she sat still, head down, silent. Eventually, she picked up the roe, placed it in her bowl, and stormed off. She ran to the boat and paddled to her grandmother’s house. My wife tried to comfort her, but she refused to return. I was to leave the next day, and the thought of leaving her behind broke my heart. The next morning, the whole family gathered to send me off. As I was busy with the farewell, I didn't pay much attention to Thu, and my wife was packing my things. Thu stood quietly by the door, observing everyone. When I glanced at her, I noticed something different in her expression—she was no longer stubborn or frowning but appeared sad, her innocent face looking thoughtful, lost in deep contemplation. As I shouldered my bag and shook hands with everyone, I turned to look at her one last time. She remained still in the corner of the house, and I desperately wanted to hold her, kiss her, but I was afraid she would run away. I stood there, heart heavy, and softly said, 'I’m leaving now, my dear.' To my surprise, as soon as I finished speaking, she called out, 'D...a...a...Dad.' My heart soared with happiness as she ran toward me, throwing her arms around my neck, crying as she said, 'Dad, stay home with me, I don’t want you to go, please stay!' I lifted her up and kissed her forehead, feeling a powerful, overwhelming love as she clung to me. Later, I learned from my mother-in-law that Thu hadn’t recognized me because of the long scar on my face, a result of a battle wound from the war. 'Dad will return soon, my dear,' I promised her. During the war, whenever I had a moment to myself, I thought of my daughter. On one mission, I found an elephant tusk and decided to carve a comb for Thu. I spent hours engraving the words 'Missing you, Thu, your father’s love' onto it, pouring all my affection into the creation of this gift. I imagined presenting it to her when I returned. But fate is often cruel, and no one can predict what tomorrow holds. During a mission, I was severely wounded, knowing I wouldn’t survive. I took out the tusk comb, handed it to a comrade, and said, 'Please...give it to Thu for me.' In my final moments, as I lay on the battlefield, I felt a brief sense of peace as I saw Thu’s smiling face and heard her voice in my heart. I smiled, embracing my last breath with the hope that one day, she would receive my love through the gift I had made for her.

I was a soldier in the Southern battlefield. Answering the sacred call of the homeland, I left my elderly mother and young child to enlist. In the midst of the brutal years of war, it was nearly impossible for my child and I to meet. It wasn't until my child was 8 years old that I had the chance to visit my hometown. That trip home left me with unforgettable memories that still linger. When I left to enlist, my daughter Thu was barely a year old. I often asked my wife to bring our child during her visits so I could hold her and ease my longing, but circumstances didn’t allow it. It was only when I was able to return home that I had the opportunity to meet my daughter again. The yearning for my child was overwhelming, keeping me awake through the night, eagerly waiting for the day I could see her and embrace her. As the boat docked, I saw a girl, about 8 years old, with short hair, wearing a red shirt and flowered pants, playing near the house. My father's intuition and connection with my child led me to believe that this was Thu, my daughter. I rushed to shore, calling her name: 'Thu, my child.' I imagined she would run toward me, hugging and kissing me, and we would share an emotional reunion, but instead, she froze, staring at me with wide eyes. My heart ached as I walked slowly toward her. Every time I felt emotional, the long scar on my face would turn bright red, which probably frightened her, making her cry out and run to find her mother. I felt like a stranger, a deep sadness overwhelming me. My heart ached. The child I had waited for, longed for, didn’t recognize me as her father? This thought wouldn’t leave my mind. During my three-day leave, I stayed close to home, trying to bond with my daughter, hoping for even a moment when she would call me 'Dad'. That word stayed in my heart, a constant, burning desire. But the more I tried to be near her, the more she pushed me away. My wife noticed it too, but nothing could change her reluctance. Even when I asked her to pass me a pot of rice, she refused to address me as 'Dad.' At dinner, I picked out the biggest, juiciest piece of fish for her, but she defiantly pushed it away, causing a mess. Frustrated but also affectionate, I slapped her on the back and scolded her, 'Why are you so stubborn?' I expected her to cry and make a fuss, but instead, she quietly picked up the fish, placed it back on her plate, and walked outside, heading to her maternal grandmother's house. After the meal, I asked my wife to bring her back, but no matter what was said, she refused to come. The next day was my last day at home. Who knew when I would return? It was a harsh reality of war. My daughter couldn’t understand the pain I was going through. That night, I couldn’t stop my mind from racing. I tossed and turned, sighing heavily, but my wife understood. She comforted me, saying, 'Don’t worry, when she grows up, she will understand.' I just sighed in resignation, trying to comfort her. The next morning, relatives gathered at our home. Thu was with her grandmother. I was so busy with visitors that I barely noticed her. As I was preparing to leave, I turned back and saw her standing in the corner, no longer stubborn, but with a contemplative look on her face. I longed to run to her and kiss her, but I feared my scar would frighten her. Instead, I spoke quietly from afar: 'Goodbye, my child.' I turned to leave, my heart heavy with longing. But just as I was about to leave, I heard her running toward me, crying, 'Dad!' My heart skipped. She was calling me 'Dad,' and I was sure I hadn’t imagined it. The sound of her voice pierced the silence, filling me with emotion. I ran to her, embracing her. As if sensing something, Thu hugged me tightly, crying, 'Don’t go, stay with me, Dad.' I felt a surge of love for my little girl. This was the moment I truly understood the depth of fatherly love, and yet I had to leave. I was choking on my words, but I managed to say: 'I’ll be back, my child.' But she didn’t want to hear it. She clung to me with all her strength, terrified I would leave. I too feared leaving her behind. I wanted to stay longer, to shower her with all the love I had hidden in my heart, but duty called. The war wouldn’t allow me to. The time to go had come. My relatives comforted Thu, trying to calm her so I could leave in peace. Witnessing this, no one could hold back their tears. Thu seemed to understand. She was no longer stubborn, but still clung to me, crying, 'Dad, when you return, buy me a comb.' She slowly let go. Later, I learned that Thu hadn’t recognized me because of the scar on my face, which didn’t match the picture of me her mother had shown her. After my mother-in-law explained, Thu finally understood. She had never forgotten me. It was just her innocent, childish mistake, and the war’s scar that made her unable to recognize me. In a tearful farewell, we parted ways to continue our mission. Back in the jungle, I lay on my hammock, thinking of my child, feeling guilty for the times I had struck her. My love for her had barely been shown, yet I had hurt her. I tortured myself with regret throughout those long years of war. That day, during a rainy afternoon, I returned to my unit. I was overjoyed because I had found a piece of elephant tusk. Excitedly, I showed it to my comrades. I intended to carve a comb for my daughter, hoping she would like it. I took a shell casing and carefully crafted a small saw. During my breaks, I worked on the comb, patiently carving each tooth. Before long, it was finished. I engraved it with a message: 'With love, from Dad to Thu.' The comb was a little over a foot long. Each day, I would admire it, easing my longing for my daughter. It gave me strength to endure the hardships, to keep fighting, and to one day return home to her. War tears people apart. It makes children forget their fathers, and when they finally recognize them, they can’t be together. I’m not the only one—many families face the same heart-wrenching situation. Only peace, unity, and independence will bring true happiness. We—the revolutionary soldiers—will fight and win so that the people of Vietnam, and the Vietnamese nation, can live in peace, where children are loved and cared for by their families, in the warmth of their parents' embrace.

For me, the greatest happiness of my life is having my daughter Thu – my firstborn. Even though it has been almost eight years since I last saw her, not a single day goes by that I don't think about the day our family will be reunited. Finally, the opportunity came when I was granted a three-day leave. My heart filled with joy, imagining the moment when my beloved daughter would run into my arms and call me 'Dad.' My heart raced with anticipation as I made my way home. I saw a little girl with shoulder-length hair, wearing black pants and a white T-shirt, playing in the shade of the mango tree in the front yard. I knew immediately it was my daughter. Without waiting for the boat to dock, I jumped ashore and ran toward her. With a lump in my throat, I called out: 'Thu, my dear.' But the long-awaited response didn't come. When I opened my arms to embrace her, Thu looked at me with wide eyes, completely puzzled. I felt a wave of sadness and shivers ran down my spine as I said: 'Thu, it's your dad.' She stared at me, blinking rapidly as if trying to figure out who I was. Then, she turned pale, ran into the house, and shouted: 'Grandma! Mom!' Everything was the opposite of what I had imagined. The daughter I had been longing for saw me as a stranger, a stranger who looked nothing like the man in the old photo with her mother, thanks to a scar on my cheek. During the days I spent at home, Thu refused to accept me as her father. I stayed close to her, not daring to go far, hoping to make up for lost time and love. But no matter how hard I tried, she kept a cold distance, pushing me away. The more I comforted her, the further she pulled away. I longed to hear her call me 'Dad,' but she never did. One day, when my wife asked Thu to call me for dinner, she refused and instead said, 'Mom can call, but why should I?' My wife got angry and threatened to hit her if she didn't listen, but Thu still stubbornly replied: 'Come eat.' I heard my daughter’s voice but chose to remain silent, hoping she would say 'Dad, come eat.' Yet, to my disappointment, she called out from the kitchen, 'The rice is ready.' I still didn’t respond. Annoyed, Thu glanced at her mom and said: 'I called him, but he won’t listen.' I didn’t know what to say, so I smiled at her. How stubborn my daughter was! But deep down, I loved her so much. That day, my wife went outside to prepare for my upcoming trip, and before I left, she reminded Thu that if she needed anything, she could call me. But even then, Thu said nothing, sitting quietly in the kitchen. When the rice began to boil, despite her inability to pour out the water, she looked up at the house. I thought that if she were in trouble, she would surely call me 'Dad,' but instead, she yelled: 'Pour the water, the rice is boiling.' I told her: 'You need to call me 'Dad' when you ask, okay?' Whether on purpose or by accident, she didn’t listen, and instead kept shouting: 'The rice is boiling, hurry up before it gets mushy.' I warned her: 'Aren’t you afraid of being scolded? If the rice gets mushy, your mom will yell and punish you. All you need to do is call me 'Dad,' why is it so hard for you?' I watched her struggle, her eyes filled with anxiety as she went back and forth, eventually doing it herself, muttering under her breath like she was blaming me. During dinner, I picked the biggest fish roe for her and placed it in her bowl, but as soon as she finished, she pushed it aside with her chopsticks, sending rice scattering everywhere. In my frustration, I lost control and slapped her. I immediately regretted it, feeling like I didn’t even recognize myself. I yelled: 'Why are you so stubborn?' After the slap, Thu ran to her grandmother, and I don’t know what she was told there, but when she came back, she seemed different. She wasn’t as stubborn or scowling like before; her face was filled with sadness, and there was a depth of thought in her eyes. The next morning, relatives gathered to see me off. With so many things happening, I didn’t have time to focus on Thu, while my wife was busy packing. Thu seemed to be forgotten, standing alone by the door, looking at everyone. When I glanced at her, I noticed that today, her expression was different again, as if she wasn’t as rebellious or frowning as usual. She seemed thoughtful and serious. As I was leaving, wearing my backpack and saying goodbye to everyone, I glanced at Thu. She stood silently in the corner of the house. I wanted to embrace her, kiss her, but I was afraid she would run away, so I just stood there, watching her from a distance, feeling a deep sadness. I softly said: 'I’m leaving now, my dear.' To my surprise, just as I finished speaking, she suddenly called out: 'D...a...d.' At that moment, my heart overflowed with joy, and she rushed to me, throwing her arms around my neck, crying and saying: 'Dad, stay home with me. I don’t want you to go, please stay with me!' In that instant, it felt as if time stood still. My heart was racing with emotion, and the happiness I felt was overwhelming. Tears of joy and happiness poured out of me, as it was the first time I had ever heard my daughter call me 'Dad.' She finally recognized me, and I kissed her hair, promising to bring her a comb when I returned. After returning to the base, the words Thu had said to me, 'Dad, come back! Bring me a comb!' made me determined to carve a comb from ivory for her. When I found a piece of ivory, I was as thrilled as a child receiving a gift. I put all my effort and heart into making the comb. Once finished, I engraved the words 'Love, for Thu, from Dad.' The comb became a sacred object, a reminder of the deep love and longing of a father for his daughter, separated by time and war. It gave me strength and comfort during my battles. Every night, I would polish the comb, making it shine, waiting for the day I could bring it back to her. Indeed, war – these two words were heartbreaking. It was because of war that so many people suffered. I hoped that my comrades and I would complete our mission and that the country would soon find peace, so we could reunite with our families after so many years apart.

The rain poured heavily outside. The shelter my comrades and I had built earlier leaked in several places. After we had successfully repelled a fierce enemy attack, we gathered together to rest, sing, and share stories of our families. These moments were truly precious in our lives as soldiers. As usual, I pulled out the ivory comb I was crafting and began refining the final details. Holding it in my hands, memories of little Thu flooded my heart, stirring emotions I could hardly contain. I shared the story of our last meeting with my comrades, hoping it would bring me some comfort...

It had already been eight long years since I left my homeland, my family, and friends to join the national resistance. Though my mother had visited a few times and I cherished the photo of her and my child, the longing to hold my own flesh and blood made my heart ache...

Before me, the image of the coconut palms leaning over the canal in front of our house suddenly appeared. In a flash, I saw a little girl, about eight years old, with short hair, wearing a thick jacket, playing by the tree. A father’s instinct told me that it was my beloved Thu, the daughter I had longed to see. As the boat docked, I jumped ashore, unaware that the boat rocked dangerously under the movement.

I softly called:

- Thu! My child!

I shouted loudly and rushed toward her, thinking that she would run to me, arms wide open, calling out for her mother to know I had returned. But, strangely, the little girl stared at me in confusion, as if trying to recognize who I was. I stepped closer, my arms still open. However, she didn’t rush to me as I had imagined. Instead, her face turned fearful, and she screamed, “Mom! Mom!” before running quickly into the house.

Stunned, I stood frozen, my arms dropping to my sides. I watched her flee inside, not daring to turn away. I looked at my comrade Ba, and we both shook our heads. Ba tried to comfort me:

- Don’t worry, she’ll recognize you eventually. She’ll remember her father, I’m sure.

I smiled, but tears almost welled up in my eyes. Why was this happening? Just then, my mother rushed out, delighted, helping me with my backpack and quickly running off to spread the news.

Amid the chatter of relatives and neighbors, though I was happy, a deep emptiness lingered in my heart. Every now and then, I stole a glance at Thu, but she still avoided my gaze. It felt as though my heart was bleeding.

Due to the distance, I could only stay home for three days. I spent all my time with my family, especially with Thu. At dinner, my mother asked her to call me in. Reluctantly, she shook her head, refusing. Annoyed, my mother threatened to punish her with a kitchen utensil, and only then did she shout from the kitchen:

- Come eat!

The first words she spoke to me upon my return were cold and detached. I stood silent, but I understood that the eight years of separation had built a wall between us. Still, I held on to the hope of hearing her call me “father.”

On another day, while my mother was busy cooking, she asked Thu to keep an eye on the rice pot. The rice boiled over, and Thu, struggling, called for my help:

- The rice is boiling, please pour out the water!

Another cold, emotionless statement. I stayed silent, continuing to sip my strong tea with Ba. I purposely ignored her, hoping that she would finally say “father” with warmth and affection. But no, she continued struggling, eventually using a ladle to scoop out the water. What a stubborn girl!

At dinner, I placed a large piece of fish roe on her plate:

- Eat, dear!

She said nothing, then suddenly pushed the piece away, causing rice to scatter across the table. My frustration boiled over, and I couldn’t control myself. I smacked her twice on the backside and scolded:

- Why are you so stubborn?

After the punishment, my heart ached as though salt had been rubbed into the wound. Strangely, she didn’t cry or throw a tantrum like other children. Instead, she bowed her head silently, picked up the fish roe, and quietly left for the boat, heading to her maternal grandparents' house. At that moment, I felt more regret than anger. It wasn’t her fault; it was the war that had separated us. As night fell, I lay awake, unable to sleep, wondering how she was doing. Surely, she must hate me now. I couldn’t understand why my tears kept flowing.

The next morning, I had to leave. In the rush of farewells, I didn’t have time to think about her. Before I left, I turned to find her. She was standing in the corner of the house, staring blankly at me. Her eyes no longer held anger. I wanted to run to her and hug her goodbye, but fearing she would run away, I just stood there, looking into her eyes and quietly said:

- I’m leaving now, my child!

I quickly turned away, but just as everyone assumed she would remain silent, I heard:

- Ba...a...a...ba!

My God! Did I hear it wrong? Thu was calling me? Before I could react, she ran to me, threw herself into my arms, and sobbed in my chest:

- I won’t let you go! Stay with me, Daddy!

She kissed my neck, my hair, my cheeks, and even the long scar on my face. I held her tightly, feeling the warmth of her love. I whispered:

- I’ll return, and I’ll bring you your comb!

- No!

Her arms wrapped tightly around my neck, her legs clinging to my sides. She sobbed uncontrollably, and I felt my own eyes stinging. Only when my mother and grandmother comforted her did she release me. Tears welling up, she cried:

- When you return, bring me a comb, okay?

I nodded, unable to speak. My duty called, and once again, I wiped away my tears and set off. But this time, I carried with me a promise to my little girl. I would make her a beautiful comb and send it to her. The heavens seemed to favor our reunion. One day, while gathering materials in the forest, I stumbled upon a small piece of ivory. I was overjoyed because this piece would help me create the perfect comb for Thu. She must be waiting for me. The work was slow and meticulous. Every day, after completing my missions, I sat down and carefully crafted each tooth of the comb. Slowly but surely, the comb began to take shape. To mark this special gift from father to daughter, I engraved the message: “Love and miss you, Thu, my daughter.” I hoped she would love it and feel joy when she received it.

Thu, I promise I’ll come back. Once our country is reunited, I’ll be with you forever, and we’ll make up for all the lost time. Wait for me, my dear!

The bond between a father and his daughter is undoubtedly one of the most sacred and cherished emotions in life. To truly understand this, let me share with you a difficult and sacrifice-filled journey during the French resistance, and the deep love I have for my only daughter, Thu. My involvement in the resistance began when Thu, my firstborn, was less than a year old. Every step I took along the rugged path of war made me question the essence of fatherhood, a love experienced through moments of sacrifice and separation. For many years, I only knew of Thu through small photos sent to me. The physical distance and the passage of time made my longing and love for her surpass all boundaries. My wife tried to visit me during perilous times, but bringing Thu along was impossible due to the dangerous roads. I often gazed at Thu’s photo, her clear eyes and smile became my greatest source of encouragement during the long days on the battlefield. Fatherly love wasn’t just in words; it was in the faces, the smiles, and the silent moments shared. Thu became my pride, the force that helped me overcome the hardest challenges, the light guiding me through the storm of war. The bond between us remained, no matter the separation or the painful trials we faced. It was a sacred love, never fading, always warm, and reassuring in the hearts of both father and child. I endured hardships, but my love for Thu remained unwavering, a crucial part of my life and my responsibilities. For a long time, we had been apart. The resistance required me to be far from my family, living with the hope of tomorrow. Then, finally, the moment arrived when I could return home and reunite with my daughter. From afar, I saw a delightful sight: a young girl with shoulder-length hair, dressed in black pants and a cotton shirt, playing in the yard. That was my Thu. Without hesitation, I leapt into the boat, eagerly calling her name and rushing to embrace her, hoping to relieve the pain of separation. I imagined the warmth of our reunion. However, what I didn’t expect was the shock and unfamiliarity she displayed. She stood frozen, her big eyes staring at me, confused. I wondered if she was thinking, who was this man claiming to be her father? Then, faster than the surprise, she ran away, calling out in fear and uncertainty. I stood still, feeling a deep sorrow as I watched her run and call out. In her eyes, I was a stranger, someone unfamiliar. At that moment, I felt truly pitiful, realizing how much time had been lost in understanding her heart. The brief family reunion lasted only three days, but we tried to create meaningful moments with her, teaching her to call me 'father.' However, her stubbornness made our efforts difficult. Even in simple situations, like calling me for meals or asking me to fetch water for the rice pot, she stubbornly refused to say 'father.' Despite all I did to care for her, her defiance broke my heart. I often recall those days with deep regret. One incident stood out: I had scolded her for refusing the piece of fish egg I offered, and I ended up striking her. This fractured our bond, causing both emotional pain for her and for me. After the punishment, Thu ran to her grandmother's house, and I didn’t know what was said to her, but when she returned, she seemed changed—more distant and unfamiliar. The turmoil in her heart left me feeling regretful for the unintended consequences of my actions. On the morning of my departure, the house was filled with emotion as relatives gathered to say goodbye. I had to greet the guests, but my eyes were fixed on Thu. Perhaps she was contemplating something in her young mind. She stood silently observing, then looked toward me. I wondered if she understood anything, as there was a certain sadness in her gaze, a sadness that carried a distant thought. As the time to leave approached, I longed to hug her tightly and leave with a warm farewell. But fearing her reaction, I could only stand, watching her with eyes filled with affection and sorrow. I dared not speak, merely watching her lost in deep thought. Then, unexpectedly, a heart-wrenching sound broke through—'Father...father!' Her call was sharp and sweet, like an arrow to my heart. She rushed to me, fast as a squirrel, and embraced my neck. My heart raced as I held her, feeling love, longing, and tears from both of us. She kissed me, held me tight, and cried, not wanting to let go. People around us had to intervene, trying to release her so I could leave. Before I left, she reminded me to bring back a comb. After those emotional days with my precious daughter, we had to return to the eastern battlefield. Each day was a new challenge, and we could no longer attend the gatherings. But on a sunny day, I found an ivory tusk and decided to carve a beautiful comb for my daughter. Every day, I carefully sawed each tooth of the comb, and etched loving words for her. Doing this brought me closer to her, though it also filled me with anxiety about the uncertain future. I hoped that when the war ended, I could return and give her this small gift. It was a delicate plan, but life often has unexpected turns. In the final days of 1958, during a major operation against the US-backed forces, I was seriously injured. Before leaving this world, I entrusted the ivory comb to my comrade, Ba, hoping he would deliver it to my daughter. In my last moments, Ba's voice echoed in my mind: 'I will bring it to her, and hand it to the child.'

I am a soldier on the front lines in the Southern battlefield. Heeding the sacred call of the nation, I left behind my elderly mother and young children to enlist. During the brutal years of war, it was nearly impossible for my child and I to meet. It wasn’t until my daughter turned eight that I had the opportunity to return home. That brief visit left me with memories that have never faded.

When I first enlisted, my daughter Thu was less than a year old. On the rare occasions when my wife visited, I would ask her to bring Thu along so I could soothe my deep longing to see her. But circumstances didn’t allow it. It wasn’t until years later, when I was finally able to visit home, that I had the chance to reunite with my child.

The yearning for my daughter consumed me. I couldn’t sleep, anxiously waiting for the moment I could embrace her. As the boat neared the dock, I saw a little girl around eight years old, with hair cut to her shoulders, dressed in a red shirt and cotton pants, playing outside. With the powerful bond of fatherly love, I instinctively knew it was my daughter Thu. I rushed ashore, calling out, “Thu, my daughter.” I envisioned her running to me, hugging me tightly, but instead, she froze, wide-eyed with confusion. Overcome with emotion, I took slow steps toward her, feeling the scar on my face burn with embarrassment. Perhaps that’s what frightened her. She screamed in terror and ran to find her mother. I felt like a stranger, filled with sadness and disappointment. My heart ached—how could my daughter, whom I had longed to see, not recognize me? I was filled with an overwhelming sense of sorrow.

We could only stay for three days due to the long journey. During that time, we tried our best to get Thu to call me “Dad.” But she was stubborn, tough, and defiant. Despite my efforts—calling her to meals or asking her to fetch water for the rice pot—she would not address me as “Dad.” I felt distressed by her attitude. The most regretful moment of those days was when, out of frustration, I struck her on the back and yelled at her when she refused to eat a piece of fish I offered her. After being scolded, Thu ran to her grandmother’s house. I’m not sure what she was told there, but when she returned home, I noticed she had changed—more distant and unfamiliar.

On the morning we had to say our goodbyes, relatives from both sides of the family came to bid us farewell. I was busy hosting guests, unable to focus on Thu. She seemed to be standing there, alternately watching the crowd and looking at me. I wondered what thoughts were running through her mind. She appeared sad, an adorably sorrowful expression, as if lost in deep thought. As I prepared to leave, I saw her standing in the corner of the house. Although I desperately wanted to embrace her one last time, I feared she might react like she did when I first arrived. So I just stood there, gazing at her with a tender, sad gaze. But then, unexpectedly, she shouted, “Dad… a… Dad!” Her voice, full of emotion, struck me to the core. She rushed toward me, leaping into my arms, hugging my neck tightly, kissing me, crying, and refusing to let go. It took some effort from everyone around to get her to release me so I could leave. Before I departed, Thu made sure to remind me to bring back a comb for her.

Afterward, we returned to the Eastern battlefield, where we were no longer required to participate in the troop gatherings. One day, I found a piece of ivory. I decided to carve it into a beautiful comb for my beloved daughter. Every day, I carefully crafted each tooth of the comb, carving loving words into it for her. I dreamed that when the war ended, I would return home and present this small gift to her.

However, fate had other plans. During a large-scale raid by the American and puppet forces in late 1958, I was severely injured. As I lay on the brink of death, I managed to pass the ivory comb to my comrade, Ba, with the hope that he would deliver it to my daughter. In my final moments, I could still hear Ba’s voice echoing in my mind: “I will bring it to her myself.”

I am Sau, a soldier who fought on the southern battlefield. The day I said goodbye to my family and went to war, my daughter, Thu, was just one year old. To me, Thu was the greatest joy of my life, and she became the motivation that drove me to fight with all my strength, so I could return and be with her. After seven long years, I finally had the chance to return home. Even though I cherished and gazed at the photo of her and her mother every day, nothing could compare to the feeling of finally being reunited with her and holding her in my arms again.

I still remember the day I left, when Thu was still in her mother’s arms. She had such a charming and cute face. During every visit from my wife, I always asked her to bring Thu next time, even though I knew it was impossible. The chaos of war made it too dangerous to bring a child along. But the longing to see her grew stronger with each passing day.

Returning home was the happiness I had been waiting for, a moment I had dreamed about for seven years. I felt excited and restless as I thought of the family reunion, the warmth of holding my daughter, hearing her sweet voice calling me ‘dad’. I couldn’t wait to hold her again.

The boat finally arrived, and I could see the familiar house and green coconut trees. From a distance, I noticed a little girl with short hair, wearing a red shirt, and though her figure was blurred, I knew immediately that it was my daughter. I called out her name, “Thu, it’s dad.”

But as soon as she heard me, she froze, her eyes wide with confusion. She seemed frightened, even more so when she recognized me up close. A feeling of disappointment washed over me as I saw her fear. The long scar on my cheek became more visible as I approached, and I knew it was the reason she was afraid. She turned and ran away to find her mother.

My heart ached. I had never imagined this moment, never thought my daughter would be so scared and avoid her father after seven years apart. The little girl I had missed so much didn’t recognize me. It felt like a knife was twisting in my chest.

Thu’s mother informed the family and neighbors, and everyone came to visit, showing concern and warmth, which made me feel touched and encouraged. Yet, deep down, I still felt empty. Every time I glanced at Thu, she would avoid my gaze. But I understood. When I left, she was just a baby, too young to remember her father, and now she was still too small to recognize me.

I only had three days of leave, and it wasn’t enough. I didn’t want to go far. I spent all day trying to get closer to Thu, longing for her to call me ‘dad’. But she remained distant. She refused to address me, even when she needed help. One day during a meal, I gently placed a large piece of fish roe on her bowl. She didn’t respond, but then suddenly pushed the roe away, causing the rice to scatter. I couldn’t hold back my frustration. I spanked her twice on the back and scolded, “Why are you so stubborn?”

After hitting her, I felt a sharp pain in my heart, as if someone were rubbing salt in my wound. But strangely, Thu didn’t cry or speak. She quietly picked up the fish roe and placed it back in the bowl before leaving to row across to her grandmother’s house. I felt guilty. She was just a child, and it was the war that had separated us.

Three days passed too quickly. The day I had to return to the battlefield came, and the brutal nature of war meant that I couldn’t afford to think about coming back. I only longed to hear Thu’s voice calling me ‘dad’, but it was so difficult. I stayed up all night thinking about my family, especially Thu. Tears welled up in my eyes. On the morning of my departure, relatives and neighbors came to bid me farewell, urging me to take care and return after the country’s victory. I was too busy greeting everyone to notice Thu. When I put on my backpack, I looked at her. The pain in my heart was no longer as sharp as before when she didn’t recognize me. Now, I felt empty and sad, full of regret for not being able to be the father she needed. Thu’s expression was no longer rebellious. She seemed a little sadder than usual. Before I left, I just wanted to hug and kiss her, but I feared that the scar on my cheek would frighten her. So I quietly said, “I’m leaving now, my dear.”

As I turned to go, my heart was overwhelmed with emotion, and I heard a long cry: “Dad.” I couldn’t believe my ears. It was the voice I had been waiting for all this time. I turned around, and Thu was running toward me, hugging me tightly. She kissed me repeatedly on the cheek, on the scar, and kept saying, “Dad, stay with me. Don’t go.”

At that moment, I felt the deepest sense of fatherly love. But I was still about to leave. I couldn’t speak because of the tears choking me. I managed to say, “I’ll be back, my dear, I’ll be back.”

But she wouldn’t let go. She clung to my neck and wrapped her little legs around me. Thu sobbed, and I felt tears in my own eyes. When her mother and grandmother came to comfort her, she finally released me. Through her tears, she whispered, “Dad, when you come back, bring me a comb, okay?”

Our short farewell was filled with so much emotion. As I left for the battlefield, I couldn’t stop thinking about the promise I made to bring Thu a comb. The image of her holding that comb became my greatest motivation to keep fighting. I wanted to carve a beautiful comb from an ivory tusk and bullet shells, engraved with love for my daughter, to give her when I returned.

But then, war’s cruel reality struck. During a raid by the enemy, I was severely wounded. Knowing my time was short, I had no regrets because I had fought for the independence of my country. Before I died, I thought of the independence flag and my dear Thu, waiting for me. I managed to hand over the ivory comb to my comrade, Ba, asking him to deliver it to my daughter. In my final moments, I could still hear Ba’s voice beside me: “I will bring it to her.”

In that last moment, I felt Thu’s gentle smile as she held my hand, and I smiled back, happy, as I drifted into a long, peaceful sleep.

The bond between a father and his daughter – a relationship so sacred and precious in every person's life, especially for me.

I went to fight in the French War when my first child, the only one I had, little Thu, was still under a year old. Throughout the years of the war, my wife visited me, but due to the dangers of the road, she couldn't bring our daughter along. I could only look at her through a small photo.

Thus, for all that time, father and daughter never had the chance to meet. Until I was granted leave and had the chance to see my child again. From a distance, I saw a little girl around eight years old, with shoulder-length hair, wearing a black skirt and a cotton jacket, playing outside our house. I knew right away it was Thu, my daughter. I couldn’t wait for the boat to dock, jumped off in excitement, and called out to her, reaching my arms to welcome her so I could hug her and make up for the long months of missing her. However, contrary to my joy, she seemed surprised at first, standing still with wide eyes. It seemed like she didn’t recognize me. Then, after a moment of hesitation, she ran away, shouting in fear. My heart sank, filled with sorrow and pain as I stood there, helpless, watching her run. Perhaps I appeared pitiful at that moment, so lonely and lost.

Because of the long journey, we only had three days together. During those days, we tried to make her call me “dad,” but she was stubborn, strong-willed, and defiant. Even when she needed me to help with meals or serve the rice, she would speak curtly and refuse to call me “dad.” I felt anguished at her attitude.

The one thing I regret most during those days with her is that I lost my temper and slapped her on the leg and shouted at her when she refused the piece of fish roe I offered her. After being hit by me, Thu ran to her grandmother, and I don’t know what she was told, but when she returned, I noticed something different about her.

The next morning, many relatives came to bid us farewell. I had to entertain the guests and couldn’t pay attention to my daughter much. She seemed to stand there, staring at everyone and then glancing at me. I wondered what she was thinking. She appeared sad, an expression both endearing and deep in thought. When the time came for me to leave, I saw her standing in the corner of the house. Despite wanting to embrace her and say goodbye, I feared she would react as she did when I first returned. So I stood there, gazing at her with tender, sorrowful eyes. But, unexpectedly, she suddenly shouted loudly: “Dad…a…a…Dad!” Then, like a bolt of lightning, she ran to me, hugging me tightly. She kissed me, crying and holding onto me, refusing to let go. Only when the others calmed her down did she release me so I could go. Before I left, she reminded me to bring her a comb.

After returning to the battlefield in the Eastern Region, we no longer had to go for regrouping. One day, I found a piece of ivory. I wanted to craft a beautiful comb for my beloved daughter with my own hands. Every day, I carefully carved each tooth of the comb and inscribed loving words for her. I hoped that after the war, I would return and present it to her.

But then, an unfortunate event occurred. One day, at the end of 1958, during a major raid by the American and puppet forces, I was severely wounded. Before I passed away, I entrusted my ivory comb to my comrade, Ba, with the hope that he would deliver it to my daughter. And in my final moments, I could hear Ba’s voice echoing, saying: “I will bring it back to her.”

For the sake of our nation's fight, I sacrificed my family happiness, being separated from my wife and daughter, and enduring the wounds of war. For eight long years, away from home, my brief visits caused me immense pain, especially when my only daughter, whom I missed dearly, refused to accept me as her father. In my mind, the image of the nipa palm trees leaning over the canal before our house suddenly appeared. Out of nowhere, I saw a little girl with short hair playing beneath the tree. My fatherly instincts told me that it was Thu, my precious daughter, whom I had longed to meet. The yearning of a father overwhelmed me; unable to wait for the boat to dock, I jumped onto the shore, ran towards her, calling out, trembling with excitement, 'Here I am, my child!' But instead of responding with affection, she screamed in fear. My heart sank. I watched her rush inside with her mother, not daring to look back. I exchanged glances with my comrade, Ba, and we both shook our heads. Ba tried to comfort me:

– Don't worry, she will recognize you eventually. She is your daughter, after all, how could she not recognize you?

I forced a smile, but tears welled up in my eyes. Due to the long distance, we only had three days together. During those days, we made efforts to have her call me 'dad,' but she was stubborn, strong-willed, and defiant. One time, when her mother was cooking and had to rush to buy food, she asked Thu to watch the pot. The rice was boiling vigorously, and she stirred it with chopsticks a few times. But when it came to draining the water, she couldn't manage and called out to me:

– The rice is boiling, can you help me drain it?

I responded with only a grunt, purposely ignoring her. I wanted her to call me 'dad' with warmth and affection, but she still wouldn’t. She struggled for a while, then used a ladle to scoop out the water. The stubbornness of my little girl!

The biggest regret I have during those few days was when I slapped her on the back and shouted at her when she refused the fish roe I had offered. After being punished, Thu ran to her grandmother’s house, and I don’t know what was said to her, but when she returned, she was different. She wasn’t as defiant or scowling as usual; instead, she looked sorrowful, her innocent face drawn into a frown, her eyes filled with an unspoken depth of thought and contemplation.

When it was time to say goodbye, I looked at my daughter one last time. She stood quietly in the corner of the house. My heart ached as I longed to embrace her and kiss her goodbye, but I was afraid she would run away again, so I only stood from a distance, feeling sorrowful. Then I quietly said:

- I have to go now, my dear.

To my surprise, just as I finished speaking, I heard her cry out:

- D...a...a...Dad!

Thu finally called me 'dad,' and I froze. In that moment, it felt as if the whole world had stopped spinning. My heart raced with joy and my emotions overflowed. I wept, tears of happiness and relief, knowing that my daughter finally recognized me. I kissed her head and promised that when I returned, I would bring her the comb.

Back at the base, her words, 'Dad, when you come back, bring me a comb!' inspired me to make her an ivory comb. When I found a piece of ivory, I felt like a child receiving a gift. I poured all my energy into crafting the comb. Once finished, I carved the words 'With love, from Dad to Thu.' The comb became a sacred symbol of my longing and love, comforting me and nurturing the bond between father and daughter, while also strengthening my resolve to keep fighting. Every night, I would admire the comb, polish it, and imagine the day I could finally give it to her.

Indeed, war is a painful reality. It brings untold suffering and separation – husbands from wives, fathers from children, families torn apart. The horrors of war rob countless lives and bloodshed, and in this war, the most sacred emotions, like love and family, remain hidden. My comrades and I can only hope that our mission will succeed, so our country can find peace and we can finally reunite with our loved ones after so many years of separation.