Food & Receipts

Now it understands why dad always loves to fight over the fish head and bone…

When I was young, I didn't understand why my father always wanted to eat the fish head and bones, so during meals, I would always give him the bones. It wasn't until I grew up, started my own family, and had children of my own that I finally understood the wise old man. That's when I tried eating the fish head for the first time...

Administrator

7 February, 2024

134

The Father’s Lie

My parents got married when they were older. Back then, our family was poor. My mother passed away early, so my father had to raise us three siblings on his own. Our house was near a river, but my father was weak and rarely able to catch fish for us to eat. When we did have a meal with fish, it was considered a luxury for us. I still remember that whenever we ate fish, my father would always say, “Let me have the head and bones.”

I quickly asked, “Why, Father?”

With a stern and lecturing expression, my father replied, “Because I am old and often have headaches. Eating the head will relieve the pain – this is called eating the brain to nourish the brain, understand? The bones are weak, so eating bones will make them stronger. Do you understand?”

We, as children, believed that our father was telling the truth. Every meal, I would quickly divide the portions. I would give the head and bones to my father, and my two siblings would compete over the meat.

There were times when I also hesitated. During those times, my father would say, “When I was young, my parents always let me eat meat. But now, just looking at meat makes me sick. When you grow up, you’ll be like me.”

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Time flew by. My siblings and I grew up, and my father grew older. Later on, when I became more knowledgeable, I realized that my father’s words in the past were lies. It was also at that time that our family’s life became better. My siblings and I could go fishing, take boats, catch crabs, and release fish.

Because of that, my father occasionally ate meat, but he didn’t eat it regularly. Due to our youthful exuberance and our lack of understanding of love, or perhaps because my father tried to make his “lie” more acceptable to us, I didn’t remember it anymore.

Until today, when I have achieved success, with a beautiful wife and obedient children. Life is busy, ever-changing, and endless. I no longer think about fish heads or fish bones. My wife no longer leaves those parts; she only puts the meat on the table.

Today is the 10th anniversary of my father’s memorial day. I looked at the photo of my thin father with a bright smile. I looked at the big fried fish, shining with fat, that my wife placed on the altar, and tears suddenly fell. An endless pain emerged from within.

I had to turn away and wipe my tears, hide them from my wife and children, but I couldn’t erase the image of my old, bent father walking by the river, “My father went to release fish during the flood season.”

After that came the incessant war injuries tormenting him. I couldn’t erase the thought, “If my father had eaten more meat, he wouldn’t have aged and weakened like this.” Just finished praying and unintentionally calling out “Father” from my throat.

When we sat down to eat, seeing my wife cutting the fish and setting aside the head and bones, I held her hand and said, “Darling, let me have the head, don’t throw it away.”

My wife understood. She passed the fish head to me. Only our little daughter was curious, saying, “Why is Dad eating the head today? It has lots of bones, and they will hurt Dad.”

I caressed my daughter’s head, swallowing the lump in my throat, and said, “Recently, Daddy has been having frequent headaches, so eating the head will make the pain go away, my dear. This is called eating the brain to nourish the brain, understand?”

I ate while trying not to let the tears overflow into the rice bowl. Now I understood…

Unspoken Love

My father seemed to not know how to express his love. Our family lived happily and comfortably, all thanks to my mother. Every day, my father would go to work early in the morning and come home in the evening. But after hearing my mother recount our daily wrongdoings, my father would scold us.

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There was a time I stole a piece of candy from a small shop at the beginning of the street. My father knew and insisted that I return it. Not only that, but my father also made me clean the shop as a way to redeem my mistake. My mother was the only one who understood, because after all, I was just a child.

I accidentally broke my leg while playing soccer. On the way to the hospital, my mother held me in her arms. My father stopped the car in front of the emergency room, but the security guard asked him to park elsewhere because that spot was only for emergency vehicles. After hearing this, my father got angry, saying, “Do you think our car is a travel car?”

During my birthday celebrations, my father didn’t act like a father who shared the joy with me. Instead, he was busy blowing up balloons, setting up the table, or doing miscellaneous tasks. My mother was the one who put candles on the cake and gave it to me to blow out.

When looking through photo albums, friends often asked, “Where is your father?” Only God knew, as my father was always the one holding the camera. My mother and I were always smiling brightly like flowers, and naturally, there were endless photos of us.

I still remember one time when my mother asked my father to teach me how to ride a bike. I asked my father to let go, but he said it was time for him to stop holding the bike for me. And so, my father let go. I fell to the ground, and my mother quickly ran over to help me up, while my father held his arms out, signaling my mother to stay away. At that moment, I was filled with anger and determined to prove to my father that I didn’t need his help. I immediately tried to climb back on the bike and ride by myself to show my father. That’s when my father stood still and smiled.

I entered university, and all the letters were written by my mother. My father only sent money for meals and only wrote one short letter throughout my four years, with a brief mention of me leaving home to study far away, which meant no one would play soccer on the grass in front of the house anymore, causing the grass to become more and more lush.

Every time I called home, my father seemed eager to talk to me, but in the end, he would say, “Call your mother instead!”

And so, I got married, and my mother cried as always. My father wiped his nose a few times before leaving the room.

From childhood to adulthood, my father only asked me questions like: Where are you going? What time will you be back? Is the car still full of gas? No, you can’t go…

My father didn’t know how to express his love at all. Unless… Was it that my father had expressed so much love, but I unintentionally couldn’t feel that profound love?