My life, I, Hữu Thắng, see as a mosaic of light and shadow. I am 49 years old now, yet every time I close my eyes, I still see myself as a skinny boy, shivering in the cold northern winds of the highlands.

I was born into a poor family, a poverty that seemed like the destiny of our whole bloodline. My older sister, Quỳnh Nga—two years older than me—and I grew up knowing hunger and scarcity since infancy. Patched-up clothes, meals of cassava, sweet potatoes, and wild vegetables became a part of our childhood.

“At Tết, I’ll make big square sticky rice cakes for you two,” my mother would often say, her voice trembling from the cold, but her eyes glimmering with hope. And we, innocent children, could only wait and long for the flavors of the New Year—for that rare taste of meat and a full bánh chưng. The rest of the 365 days were nothing but a cycle of deprivation.

My mother, a frail yet strong woman, economized to the point that she wouldn’t let us eat the eggs our hens laid. Every single egg she carefully set aside to sell at the market, trading them for a few ounces of salt—the only seasoning in our meager meals.

My father, an educated man, was the pride of the whole village. Gentle and calm, he loved his children more than himself. He often hugged me, smoothing my messy hair, and said:
“I studied well, but our family was too poor; I couldn’t continue school. You two must try hard. Only knowledge can lift us out of poverty.”

His words engraved themselves into my mind. Every evening, he sat by the rickety wooden table to teach me, telling me stories about the vast world beyond. On some nights, he carried me on his shoulders around the village, pointing at the sparkling stars, speaking of faraway wonders. Those memories were like a dream—a dream of happiness I never wanted to wake from.

But then that dream shattered, leaving only pain and emptiness. When I was 9, my father suddenly passed away from illness.

His death left an immense void in my heart and in our family. My once strong mother completely broke down. I watched her bend her back harvesting rice, her frail shoulders struggling under heavy bundles, tears mingling with sweat and sinking into the soil. We, two young children, could do nothing but stand there, helpless and aching. That sorrow turned into an invisible resentment—a hatred of poverty, of fate, which had stolen my beloved father away.

Three years later, my mother remarried. The man, Lâm—whom I later called my stepfather—was a quiet, honest man, an orphan since childhood.

“He’s poor, but kind. With someone to share the burden, your lives will be less hard,” my mother said, her eyes filled with both weariness and hope.

But to me, who saw my father as the entire world, Lâm’s presence felt like betrayal. I could not accept it. I told myself no one could ever replace my father. Every time I saw him, I acted cold, sometimes even snapped at my mother, just to make him feel he was an outsider, an intruder in our lives.

Yet my stepfather never once got angry with me. Quietly, he worked without complaint. During off-seasons, he labored as a construction helper, taking odd jobs to earn small wages. His clothes were always old and torn, yet whenever my sister and I needed something, he tried his best to provide.

His kindness, his silent sacrifices—in my eyes—were nothing but a clumsy act. I thought he was just trying to buy my affection, that his goodness was not genuine. I built a shell of coldness and contempt to hide my pain and loss.

Once, when I was in high school, my stepfather came to my school gate, silently waiting to hand me some food my mother had prepared. The moment I saw him, my heart tightened. A wave of shame and discomfort surged inside me. I turned away and walked off, deliberately avoiding him.

He quietly gave the food to my sister, asking her to pass it to me. Later at home, my mother told me sadly:
“He was worried you hadn’t gotten used to dormitory life. He skipped lunch and waited outside for you all afternoon, under the blazing sun, just to give you the food.”

I answered indifferently:
“I didn’t want to see him. I already have food.”

My mother grew angry, ready to punish me, but he stopped her:
“Don’t blame him. He’s still a child. He misses his father. Don’t be upset with him.”

His words cut into my heart like an invisible blade, yet I remained stubborn. I still refused to understand. To me, he was just a stranger—a man who could never replace my real father.

I got into university and later continued on to graduate school. Most of my tuition fees were covered by my sister, who worked extra jobs and saved every bit she could. Every time my stepfather tried to give me money, I coldly refused.

“I don’t need your money,” I said arrogantly. I thought I didn’t need his fake kindness. I had no idea how hard he had worked for that small sum—working from dawn until late at night without a single complaint. He would secretly give the money to my sister and tell her to lie, saying it was from her, just so I wouldn’t refuse it. His kindness, his silent sacrifices—I never noticed. I trampled over them without a thought.

After graduating, I found a job, started a family, and built a life many would envy: a house, a car, a solid career. I once suggested that my mother come live with me, but she refused. Instead, she and my stepfather chose to stay with my sister, even though her rented place was cramped. My heart once again filled with irritation, even resentment.

“Why didn’t Mother choose me, the one with better conditions?” I asked myself. I couldn’t understand her choice, nor the deep bond between her and my stepfather, nor the sacrifices he had made for us.

Then one summer, while I was at the office, my sister called. Her voice was choked with emotion:
“Dad fell from a ladder. He’s badly injured. Please come home. After all, he’s done so much for us.”

My hands trembled, guilt suddenly rising within me. I hesitated, but then thought Mother would be happy if I came back, so I decided to drive home. On the way, I stopped at the bank and withdrew 30 million đồng, thinking: “Consider this repayment. If he’s bedridden, we can hire someone to take care of him—spare Mother and Sister the burden.” To me, that money was like a shield—a way to avoid facing the complicated emotions in my heart.

When I arrived, the moment I stepped into the yard, I overheard Mother and my stepfather talking inside the room. His voice was weak but filled with affection:
“Don’t strain yourself. Your back is weak. I can go to the bathroom on my own.”

Mother replied gently:
“The doctor said you must stay put. I can take care of it.”

Then her voice turned heavy:
“If only we had kept the baby back then, maybe now you would have your own son to look after you.”

My heart clenched. I had never known he once could have had a child of his own.

He gave a faint smile, filled with contentment:
“From the day I stepped into this family, Hữu Thắng and Quỳnh Nga have been my children. If we had another child, the two might feel neglected. And if we had another, how could we afford to give both of them a proper education? I have never regretted that decision.”

At that moment, tears welled up in my eyes. My whole life I had thought he was just a stranger. But in truth, he had sacrificed his chance to be a father—to have his own child—just so my sister and I could have a better life.

Mother’s voice trembled:
“You worked your whole life for those children, giving everything to Thắng’s schooling and even his house. Yet he still won’t call you ‘Father.’ I just fear that if I die before you, he won’t take care of you.”

He replied:
“He loves his father deeply—that’s why. But I believe he is a good son. One day, he will understand.”

Each word pierced my hardened heart like invisible knives. I suddenly realized that through all those years, he had silently stood behind me, supporting and sacrificing for me—and I had never seen it.

I could no longer hold back. Tears streamed down my face. I pushed open the door, knelt by his bed, and choked out:
“Dad… I’m sorry… I’ve been so unfilial…”

Both Mother and my stepfather were stunned. My mother’s tone was stern, yet her eyes shimmered with tears:
“He must kneel. Without you, he wouldn’t have what he has today.”

My stepfather clasped my hand, rough and bony but strangely warm. Turning to Mother, his voice thick with emotion, he said:
“Hearing him call me ‘Dad’—my life is fulfilled. Let him stand.”

At that moment, I understood how precious that single word “Dad” was to him. It wasn’t just a title—it was recognition, acceptance, the love he had long yearned for.

From that day on, I brought Mother and my stepfather to the city for treatment. I no longer felt distant or uncomfortable around him. From someone I once rejected, he became the person I loved most. I cared for him in every meal, every sleep, every walk to the doctor. I wanted to make up for the years I had been indifferent and cold.

Three years ago, Mother passed away. Her death was a great loss, but at least I was no longer alone. My stepfather, now in his seventies, lives with my family. He is no longer an outsider, but an inseparable part of us. At every meal, I serve him his favorite dishes, ask about his health. My children call him Grandpa and cling to him lovingly. Those moments, those innocent words, are like medicine healing both his wounds and mine.

Every time I look back, regret still weighs heavily on me. If only I had recognized his love earlier. If only I had called him Dad sooner. Then maybe I wouldn’t have lived with so much guilt and remorse all those years.

But now, I only hope to have more years with him—to repay, to show my filial piety. Because I have finally understood: the one who deserves to be called Father is not only the one who gives you life, but the one who silently sacrifices his whole life for you, who feeds you, shelters you, endures your indifference. That man—the great man—is my stepfather.