Dad, who nurtured my dreams

September arrives with autumn calling out to the eager footsteps of children returning to school. The month is tinged with affectionate memories, always stirring my heart whenever I recall that very first day. I remember so vividly the days my father took me to school on an old bicycle. His thin back, curved with time, seemed to carry the entire sky filled with his child's dreams.

This year, my own daughter begins first grade. As I help her prepare for this significant milestone in her educational journey, I am overwhelmed by a flood of emotions. As I filled her name in a new notebook, I asked gently, "What is your dream for the future?" She looked up with sparkling eyes and said, "I want to be a teacher like you, Mommy." Her innocent response brought a smile to my face and instantly transported me back to my own childhood, back to the time when my father asked his children the same question.

For rural children like us back then, dreams rarely reached beyond the village fields as they were shaped by what we saw and knew. We dreamed of owning vast rice paddies, of becoming farmers like our father, or perhaps village teachers or soldiers. Our dreams were born from the innocence of childhood, in a poor countryside where feet were always caked in mud and hands were calloused from holding hoes and sickles. There were no dreams of brightly lit cities or towering buildings. Our dreams were simple, sincere. And in those days, for my siblings and me, just being able to go to school was already a great joy.

My father was a plainspoken farmer who had never set foot beyond the bamboo hedges of our village. His life revolved around the fields and the quiet toil of providing for his family. Yet, he gave us far more than food and shelter. He gave us dreams - dreams he himself never had the chance to pursue. Our dreams may have reached far, but they began in the dark brown mud caked on our father's feet. It was his thin, weathered hands that pushed us forward against the headwinds, helping our dreams take flight.

Now that we are grown, our father still stands there, like an old tree, steadfast against storms. We move forward, while he remains quietly behind us, always offering support and belief: "Keep going, your dreams will soar."

My dreams began with my father, a man who had no dreams of his own, yet spent his entire life nurturing mine. He taught not with words, but through the quiet example of his life. It was a lesson in sacrifice, in compassion, and in living with kindness and gratitude for the simplest things. Thank you, father, for silently raising my dreams with unwavering love, patience, and faith.

By: Van Anh

Translated by: Hong Van - Minho