Father's love

The day I got married, it was pouring rain. When he sent me off to my husband's house, my father didn't say anything but just cried. His tears mixed with the raindrops, falling down in torrents. I had never seen my father cry before. His cry made my heart ache. People say that men don't cry easily because they are always strong, knowing how to restrain their emotions. When the cry bursts out, the flow of emotions must be great, must be very heavy! Holding my father's hand tightly, I reassured him: Don't worry, I'm fine, then hurriedly got into the wedding car, leaving my father's figure staggering and emaciated in the bitter cold of winter.

The wedding car slowly rolled as if it was going back in time. It was more than 20 years ago, when I was still a child protected in the arms of my parents. I remember, every time I was bullied by my older brother or sister, I would run home to tell my father, then burst into tears in his arms. No matter the reason, even if I was wrong, my older brother and sister would still be scolded. My father explained that I was still young, I didn't know anything. At those times, my father would always think of something to make me stop being angry. Sometimes he would fold a paper airplane. Sometimes he would mold a clay buffalo, or more simply, he would think of a funny name to coax me: My jackfruit, be good/My tiger is the best...

My childhood was spent in the care and love of my father. I remember that on the full moon day of the Mid-Autumn Festival, my father often made star lanterns for us. I always hung around with my father splitting bamboo, making lanterns and enjoying watching him glue each star. My father also cut out beautiful shapes of flowers, chickens, ducks... from green and red paper. My star lantern was always the most beautiful, the most brilliant, the most outstanding on the full moon night of August, making many children in the neighborhood jealous.

I remember every second day of the Lunar New Year, my father would take me on his rickety bicycle to each house to wish them a happy new year. My siblings wanted to go with him, but my father said that they were too young to go out by themselves. Then my father stroked my hair, picked me up and sat on the bicycle, going from house to house. I don't understand what made me so excited to go out with my father for the New Year.

I remember, the day my siblings went to school, I had no one to play with so I cried and wanted to go to school. My father patted my head to comfort me, then took out my notebook and pen to teach me. He held my hand, forming each stroke with the first lessons: O is round like a chicken egg/O wears a hat, O adds a beard... My father said, handwriting reflects a person's character. Handwriting is like life. When you grow up, you will understand this. Now, just practice diligently, write neatly and carefully. The first lessons my father taught me gently seeped into my soul like that.

Dad's hair is now gray. Every time I visit him, my children cling to him and don't want to leave. It's still the same old pampering. Dad can spend the whole day being a patient for his grandchildren to examine, and then he'll be ready to hold out his hand for the children to draw on, even if they smear ink on his face, he still smiles.

That smile is always unusually warm. And now, wherever I go, whatever I do, I always want to quickly return to the old house. Where my father and mother still wait day and night, watching my every step. I also want to return to be my father's little girl of the past, to deeply understand: Traveling around the world, no one is as good as mother/No one has the burden of life as hard as father.

According to Hoang Anh (Tuyen Quang online)

Father's love