My dad often went on overseas business trips—so often, in fact, that he spent more than half the year in foreign countries. My sister and I, born just a year apart, were raised entirely by our mom. We spent so much time apart from Dad that I once even forgot what he looked like.
One day, Mom stepped out to the market and left me home with Dad. But because I didn’t recognize him, I burst into tears and tried to run outside. I later learned that the incident had been a heartbreaking shock for him.
When I was twelve, our whole family moved to Vietnam to live together. But even then, Dad was always busy. He was quiet, reserved, and on his rare days off, he often slept the entire day. The distance between us didn’t disappear easily.
I remember wondering, “Does Dad even love us?”
Until I became a college student, I couldn’t understand him. But when I stepped into society—the same world where Dad had spent his entire adult life—I slowly began to see things differently.
The loneliness of living abroad alone.
The heavy responsibility of providing for a family.
The guilt of not being able to watch his daughters grow up.
Dad’s whole life was speaking louder than words—telling us he loved us deeply. He never asked for anything in return. He simply wanted his daughters to grow up healthy and strong. And because of him, I was able to become an independent adult, standing on my own.
“Dad, how did you endure such a difficult life? How lonely must you have been?”
He replied quietly,
“You understand now? My little girl’s all grown up. Thank you . . . for seeing it.”
Though no one may have praised him or acknowledged his efforts, Dad quietly walked the path of sacrifice for his family. It may have taken me a long time, but I’m grateful that I finally understand my father’s way of loving.