Every year, I eagerly awaited Tet just to savor a piece of meat or a slice of Chung cake. The rest of the year, our meals consisted of vegetables, rice porridge, and sweet potatoes. My mother was so frugal that she wouldn’t even let us eat chicken eggs, saving them to sell for salt money.
My father was the most educated man in our village—kind, calm, and deeply loving to his children. He once said:
“I was a good student, but poverty prevented me from continuing my education. You two must strive hard; only through education can you escape poverty.”
He taught me to study, told me stories every night, and carried me on his shoulders as we explored the village. Those memories were like a dream—until my father suddenly passed away when I was nine.
My mother was devastated, left to raise two children alone. The days that followed were filled with her toiling in the fields, harvesting, carrying, and weeping. My sister and I were too young to be of much help.
Three years later, my mother remarried. My stepfather was an honest, quiet man who had been an orphan since childhood. My mother said:
“He’s poor but kind. Having him to support me will ease your suffering.”
But I couldn’t accept him. In my heart, only my biological father deserved that place. Every time I saw my stepfather, I was cold, even taking out my anger by snapping at my mother.
Every time I saw my stepfather, I was cold, even taking out my anger by snapping at my mother. (Illustrative image)
Yet, my stepfather never grew angry. He treated my sister and me as his own children. He worked tirelessly, taking on odd jobs during the off-season, saving every penny. He wore old clothes but always ensured my sister and I had what we needed.
I remember once, he came to my high school with some food. As soon as I saw him, I turned and walked away, deliberately avoiding him. He quietly gave the food to my sister to bring inside. When I got home, my mother told me:
“He was afraid you’d go hungry in the dormitory, so he waited for you in the midday heat.”
I casually replied:
“I didn’t want to see him.”
My mother was furious and wanted to scold me, but he stopped her, saying:
“Don’t blame her; she’s still young.”
I still didn’t understand. In my heart, I believed he was just an outsider, no matter how hard he tried, he could never replace my father.
I went on to university and graduate school. Most of my tuition was covered by my sister, and I flatly refused any money from him. I thought I didn’t need his fake kindness.
After graduating, I worked, got married, and built a career. I once invited my mother to live with me, but she refused. She and my stepfather followed my sister to help with her children, despite living in a cramped rental home. I couldn’t understand why she didn’t choose to live with me, someone with better means.
One summer day, my sister called:
“Dad fell off a ladder and broke his bones badly. Come visit him. After all, he’s done so much for us.”
I hesitated but thought my mother would be happy if I came. On the way, I withdrew 30 million VND, thinking if he needed long-term care, I could hire someone to help, easing the burden on my mother and sister.
When I arrived home, I overheard my mother and stepfather talking in the room. He said:
“Don’t push yourself, your back is weak. I can manage going to the bathroom on my own.”
My mother gently replied:
“The doctor said you must stay still. I can handle it.”
Then she said solemnly:
“If we had kept that pregnancy, maybe we’d have a biological son to care for you now.”
He smiled:
“From the day I entered this house, Minh Khang and Bảo Anh were my children. If we’d had another child then, it might have made them feel left out. And back then, how could we have afforded to educate all of them? I’ve never regretted this decision.”
My mother choked up:
“You’ve worked so hard for them, giving everything for Khang’s education and home. Yet, he still doesn’t call you ‘dad.’ I’m afraid that if I die first, he won’t take care of you.”
He replied:
“He loves his father deeply. But I believe he’s a good person.”
Hearing their conversation, I was overwhelmed with emotion. (Illustrative image)
Hearing their conversation, I couldn’t hold back my tears. All my life, I thought he was a stranger, yet he had silently cared for me every step of the way. He feared I wouldn’t accept his money, so he gave it to my sister, asking her to give it to me. He had no biological children, but he loved me as his own.
I pushed open the door, knelt by his bed, and wept uncontrollably:
“Dad… I’m sorry… I’ve been unfilial…”
Both my mother and stepfather were stunned. My mother said firmly:
“He should kneel. If not for him, you wouldn’t be where you are today.”
He choked up, holding my hand, and turned to my mother:
“Hearing him call me ‘dad’… I’ve lived a fulfilling life. Let him stand up.”
From that day on, I brought my mother and stepfather to the city for treatment. The man I once shunned became the person I loved most.
Three years ago, my mother passed away. Now, my stepfather, in his 70s, lives with my family. I care for him with every meal and every sleep. My children call him ‘grandfather’ and adore him.
Whenever I recall the past, I wish I had realized sooner. But now, I only hope to have many more years with him, to make up for lost time and show my gratitude. Because it’s not the one who gives birth to you who is your father—it’s the one who sacrifices a lifetime for you who deserves that title.
