That afternoon, when I was 18, on the very day I believed destiny had turned the course of my life, the sky was dyed crimson with sunset. Sunlight streamed through the old window, scattering across the cement-tiled floor, forming a blinding beam of light. I was sitting on a wooden chair, heart pounding wildly, fingers trembling as I unfolded the college admission letter.

The name of the school I had always dreamed of, the goal that had become my reason for living throughout my harsh childhood, appeared clearly before my eyes: “National Economics University.”

Each letter seemed to glow—it was more than a piece of paper, it was the ticket to escape the swamp of poverty, the proof of countless sleepless nights, of sweat dripping onto my books.

A lump rose in my throat, and tears streamed down my cheeks—hot, salty tears of overwhelming joy, pride, and long-suppressed sorrow. I whispered, voice trembling:

“Dad, do you see? I did it.”

My father had died young, and I always believed that excelling in my studies was the only way to repay my parents’ love, the only way to prove that even without him by my side, I could still grow up and succeed. This admission letter was not just my joy—it was the hope of the whole family, the promise of honor I made to my hardworking mother and my late father.

But only a few hours later, when the sun had set, leaving behind a dull, gray sadness, my door opened. My stepfather, Mr. Cường, walked in.

He was a man of few words, with a harsh face and eyes that always carried a cold, unreadable expression. He never smiled, never showed affection. To me, he was simply the man who lived in the same house with my mother.

Without a word, he silently approached. His rough, calloused hand reached out and snatched the letter from me. Shocked, I froze, unable to react before a matchstick flared to life.

That tiny flame spread quickly, biting into the edge of the paper, devouring each letter, each number. I was stunned, my chest tightening as if crushed.

“No! No!” I screamed, lunging forward to snatch it back, but it was too late. Tears poured down my face, mingling with fury, as I watched the greedy fire turn my admission letter into ashes.

The suffocating pain consumed me. My throat was dry, my hand reached out, touching only a few hot ashes, the acrid stench of burnt paper filling my nose.

Mr. Cường stood there, staring at me with empty, emotionless eyes. Then, without a word, he turned and walked away, leaving me collapsed on the cold floor, alone with my pain and betrayal.

From that moment on, every good feeling I ever had for him vanished. A raging hatred surged inside me, like a violent wave sweeping everything away.

I hated him—right down to the bone. So much so that for 15 years I never once called him “father,” never looked him in the eye, and never sat at the family table with him. I decided to leave home that very night. My mother, Mrs. Lan, cried and begged me to stay, but I slammed the door on the past. Only the flame of hatred remained in me; it had burned into my blood and become the only fuel for my life and my fight.

I left with not a cent to my name, and I did not regret it. That hatred was the energy that carried me through every hardship. I put aside my university dream and took on any work I could get to survive. By day I did odd jobs—waiting tables, washing dishes—and by night I buried myself in books. My body was exhausted, but my mind was sharp. I kept telling myself, “You must succeed, Long. You must prove to him that even though he tried to extinguish your dream, you will rise and live better, brighter than ever.”

A year later I retook the university entrance exam and was accepted into another school. Not as prestigious as the first, but to me it was still a victory. I never stopped studying and working. I knew life out there was hard, and I could rely only on myself. I lived on guard, trusting no one, because I had been betrayed. The wound from when I was eighteen formed a hard shell around me; it made me cold and taciturn. I threw myself into work and career to forget the painful past.

After graduating I struggled through the city: from a lowly employee I pushed myself up to higher positions. My life gradually stabilized; I bought a small apartment and a car. I had a life many people dreamed of. But every night when I returned to my empty room I still felt lonely. My mother called sometimes, her voice full of worry; she told me about life back home and about Mr. Cường’s minor ailments. “Cường has been so weak lately, child, he barely eats…” I listened but said nothing. I didn’t want to hear it, didn’t want to care. To me he remained the man who had killed my dream—the man who had stolen a path that should have been wider.

I thought that hatred would follow me for life. Then, one day, a phone call overturned everything. My mother’s voice trembled and choked: “He… he’s gone, child. He had a stroke while sweeping the yard. Can you come home?” I froze; the phone slipped from my hand and hit the floor. The tone of the call carried on—empty, interrupted—like an ending. My heart, which I thought had long been calloused, suddenly fell away. I felt neither sadness nor joy, neither tears nor laughter—only emptiness. That emptiness was scarier than any pain. It swept away all my feelings, even the hatred I had hoarded for so long.

That night I sat alone and drank. I kept pouring and drinking—strong rice wine that burned but could not burn away the emptiness inside. I used to imagine how satisfied I would feel when he died. But when it actually happened, I felt only a profound disappointment. The hatred that had sustained me for 15 years evaporated, leaving no trace. I felt like a warrior stripped of his weapon—adrift and lost. The alcohol did not make me drunk; it only sharpened me, forcing me to face the fact that I had spent 15 years living to hate one man, and now that man was gone.

A few days later I went home. The old one-story house was covered with moss. My mother, Mrs. Lan, had grown thin; her hair was almost entirely white. Seeing her, I realized how selfish I had been for the past 15 years. I only thought of my own pain and had forgotten how much she had suffered. She had lived between two men—a husband and a son—both unwilling to share, both hiding their own pain. She held me and cried; I felt her warmth, the boundless forgiveness and love. For the first time in years I let her hold me and let her tears soak into my shoulder.

After dinner, Mrs. Lan called me into Mr. Cường’s room. The room still smelled faintly of incense. She handed me an old wooden box. “There’s something in there you need to know. Open it,” she said, her voice trembling but her eyes full of trust. She didn’t explain—she simply placed the box in my hands and turned away, leaving me alone in the cold room. Reluctantly I opened it, and what I found inside stunned me. On top was a stack of yellowed newspapers and magazines—articles I’d published when I was in high school. Beneath them was a packet of admission brochures from the year I got accepted, and finally, a worn notebook stained by time.

My hand shook as I took the notebook; my heart raced. This book held a secret I had never known. I opened it. The first page was scrawled: “Diary – Written for the boy who never calls me ‘father.’” The two words “the boy” made me flinch. In my mind he had always been the cold, emotionless man who never showed affection. But it turned out that deep inside he had feelings—he had thoughts. I flipped through the crooked lines and faded ink; each sentence felt like a sharp knife thrust into my chest.

“Day… month… year… Today he received the acceptance letter. He smiled. For the first time I saw him smile so brightly. His eyes sparkled like a sky full of stars. Seeing him smile made me happy. I secretly wished I could see that smile forever. But then I looked at myself, at this house, at Mrs. Lan. I felt useless. I could not provide my family with a decent life.”

“Day… month… year… I burned the letter. I’m a bastard. I know it—I know what I did. I saw the shock and pain in his eyes. I heard his screams. Every cry, every tear was a knife in my heart. But I couldn’t help it. That school’s tuition was too high. I calculated—selling the cow, selling the small plot of land still wouldn’t be enough. If he went, Mrs. Lan would have to borrow at usury rates, and then she would never escape that debt. I was afraid. I didn’t want my son to start life with a lifelong debt.”

“Day… month… year… He left home. I saw Mrs. Lan cry, begging him to stay. My heart hurt like being cut. I wanted to run out, hold him, tell him I’m sorry. But I couldn’t. I knew he hated me. He despised me. Still, if I could choose again… I would do the same. I’d rather be hated than watch him suffer, watch Mrs. Lan suffer. His pain today will pass, but a lifetime of hardship will not. I chose the worst way, but I believed it was the best choice for him.”

“Day… month… year… My old injury has flared up again. I know I don’t have much time left. I went to the doctor—the old scaffold fall years ago, which I thought was nothing, has worsened. I don’t want to tell anyone. Saying it aloud would only make Mrs. Lan and him worry more. I truly am a useless man. I couldn’t do anything for the family; even protecting my son’s dream required such a cowardly act.”

Each line and page burned away the hatred inside me and replaced it with remorse and pain. Tears streamed down onto the yellowed notebook. I hugged it to my chest as if embracing a piece of memory I had tried to discard. I had been completely wrong. Mr. Cường was not the man who ruined my life; he was the one who had saved me from a burdened future. He had sacrificed himself, accepting my hatred so that I might have a better life.

Holding the notebook, I went down to the kitchen. My mother was washing dishes. Her eyes looked at me with worry, as if afraid I would leave again. I placed the notebook on the table and asked quietly, “How long did you know?” She paused, looked at me for a long time, and said, “I only found out recently. I thought he hated you, that’s why he did it. After you left, he barely spoke. The two of them… became even quieter. I didn’t really understand him until I packed his things.” Her voice broke; tears ran down her cheeks. I choked: “If only… he had said one word.” Mother nodded slowly, eyes wet: “If only… But he was that kind of man—no matter how tired he was, he never complained; he always suffered alone. I lived with him for years, yet perhaps I never truly understood him.”

That night I sat before Mr. Cường’s altar. Incense rose, candles flickered, and his photograph still looked stern, but in my eyes now it reflected pain and love. I used to think some people enter our lives only to wound us. But I realized that sometimes the wounds they leave aren’t from lack of love—they’re from not knowing how to love properly. My stepfather was such a man: rough in expression, but quietly taking on all the sacrifices himself. After everything, I called him by the most sacred two words: Father.