Letter to Dad

Dad!

As I write these lines to you, Dad, I think of my friends who are probably feeling both excited and anxious about this first crossroads in their lives. Some are torn between two universities, others are hesitant about which subject group to prioritize for their entrance exams. Some are simply wondering whether they should study at home or in a big city. These things seem so normal, yet they seem so far away to me.

When my older sister Mắm was in third grade, I was in first grade, my younger sister Cò was three years old, and my mother was pregnant with my younger sister Cún. The four of us, mother and two children, hurried along, and my mother, fumbling in her purse for a few thousand dong—she was exhausted from morning sickness—still slipped it into Mắm's hand, telling her to buy bread for the two sisters. Seeing my friends dressed in their new clothes, being dropped off at school by their parents and lingering outside to watch, for the first time I felt deprived, envious of my peers. I bowed my head to my desk, afraid that if I looked up I would burst into tears and call for my mother. I had seen many children in the neighborhood cry for their mothers; each time, as if by magic, their mothers would appear beside them, wipe away their tears, and offer comforting words. But I, from a young age, had learned to cry and stop crying on my own, because my mother was busy working with one hand and cradling my younger sister Cò, who was crying because she was hungry for milk.

When I was in sixth grade, Mom gave birth to my younger brother, Tú. On the day Mom gave birth, Dad was overjoyed, laughing and crying at the same time. My sister Mắm and I went to bring him lunch, and we overheard Dad saying to Mom, "Finally, a boy. If only he were a little girl like the four kids at home, we'd have to abandon him like last time." I asked Mắm, "What did Dad say?" She didn't say anything, just bit her lip until it bled, placed the lunchbox outside the room, and took me home. We walked away dejectedly, Mắm sobbing uncontrollably, and I didn't understand why at the time.

When I was in 10th grade, my sister Mắm was in 12th grade. Mom was only nearly 40, but she looked haggard and worn out. Dad told her to finish 12th grade and not go to school anymore. How could we support so many people in the family? Mắm cried until her tears ran dry, but she couldn't change Dad's mind. When I was in 11th grade, Mắm carried her load to the bus station to sell sticky rice. In the mornings, when I went to school, she would already be gone. At night, I would study until late, sometimes falling asleep and waking up to find someone had covered me with a blanket. The person was gone, only the lingering scent of sticky rice and peanuts remained.

This year it's my turn to be in 12th grade. Every time I come home from school and see Dad, I panic as if I've been caught red-handed doing something wrong. I'm afraid Dad will say the same things he said to my sister Mắm before. Will it always be like this, Dad? First it was her, now it's me, tomorrow it will be Cò and Cún. When will we ever escape Mom's shadow? Sometimes, foolishly and selfishly, I wish my parents only had me. I wish I could experience, just once in my life, what true love, embrace, and care feel like. As I was beginning to get caught up in those dark and petty emotions, I saw my sister Mắm burdened with so much, her back bent, devoid of the vitality of her twenties. I saw Cò and Cún, thin and frail like two sickly kittens, yet never daring to cry. Why could I have such thoughts, when I myself understand how terrible it feels to be neglected and rejected by loved ones?

Dad, the ghost of the old society cannot continue to haunt and poison those living today and tomorrow forever. Isn't what we call family, kinship, strong and forgiving enough to overcome those meaningless prejudices? Family means being together, loving and respecting each other. Any dividing wall will immediately shatter the tiny cell that makes up this vast society. When you read these lines, ask yourself and find the answer: Do you love Mom and us? Because we, because we always love and need your love!

My daughter!

Thuc Anh