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I grew up in a poor family in the countryside. My father
worked outside the village, while my mother and my two sisters stayed at
home. Whenever my father came back home, my mother would cook a special dish
of braised meat and noodles to improve our meager living conditions. During
mealtime, my father always put the meat in my bowl and said he didn't like
it. I only realized later that he did this because he couldn't bear to eat
it himself.
When I was in elementary school, many of my classmates learned to ride
bicycles. However, our family's bicycle had a crossbar that was too high for
me to reach, so I sneaked over to my friend's house to practice riding her
smaller bike on the asphalt road. She helped me balance, but I fell and hurt
my leg. I limped back home and told my mother that I was okay, just a minor
fall. She kept nagging me about it until I went into my room and cried. Then
I heard my father tell my mother to go see what was wrong with me, apply
some medicine, and take care of me. He cared about me, but he was not good
at expressing his love in words.
As we grew up and our family's financial situation improved, we all started
to work and spent less time at home. When we called home, my mother always
answered the phone and relayed messages back and forth between us and my
father. My father would say he didn't need to answer the phone and told us
to eat and spend money without worrying about the family. He only asked us
to call home when we had no money left. Every time I heard this, tears
streamed down my face because I knew he wanted to talk to us but didn't know
how to express himself.
My father's hands were rough with calluses, and my heart ached every time I
saw them. Every time I called home and heard my father's caring words, I
wanted to cry. Every time I went back home and saw him waiting for me at the
car park, I was deeply moved.
My father was not one for small talk or expressing his love in words, but we
had become accustomed to his silent love. Father's love is always quiet and
unspoken. |
