The little girl asked to see her father one last time in the hospital, but when the nurse asked, “Who is your father?” she was left speechless…

“That night, the phone rang in their small room, breaking the short sleep of mother and daughter. A sudden piece of bad news forced the little girl to race against time to see her father one last time…”

Ngoc Anh, an 11-year-old girl, woke up as her mother jumped up to answer the phone. In the dim darkness, she only saw her mother’s pale face, lips trembling as if she wanted to say something but was choked. After a few moments of silence, her mother sighed, tears streaming down, and whispered softly:

– “Your father… is in critical condition. They said we have to go immediately…”

The small room in their apartment, usually quiet, seemed to collapse all of a sudden. Ngoc Anh sat up, her heart pounding, ears ringing, unable to believe what she had just heard. Her father had already been hospitalized for several months due to liver disease. Although the doctors had warned of his deteriorating condition, in her heart, she had always believed that as long as her mother cared for him, and she visited every week, her father would be fine.

– “Mom, let’s go now! I want to see Dad…” Ngoc Anh’s voice burst out urgently.

Her mother hurriedly put on a thin coat, eyes red from crying, and grabbed her daughter’s hand as they ran outside. The road to the hospital at midnight was cold, with gusts of wind whistling through the roadside trees. The sound of a distant ambulance siren tightened Ngoc Anh’s chest even more.

On the rare night bus still running, the mother and daughter sat in silence. Ngoc Anh tried to hold onto her mother’s hand, her tiny hand trembling in her mother’s cold grip. Her mind kept replaying memories: her father carrying her on his shoulders when he was healthy, his kind smile while teaching her to ride a bicycle, and even his frail figure in the hospital bed, still forcing a smile every time she visited.

When they arrived at the hospital, the emergency department’s gate was brightly lit. The hallway was empty, with only a few family members sitting, eyes weary. Ngoc Anh followed her mother running straight to the reception desk. The nurse on duty looked up and asked:

– “Which patient are you here for?”

Her mother quickly replied: – “My husband… Tran Van Hung, emergency room. I’m his wife, and this is our daughter.”

The nurse flipped through the records, her gaze softening for a moment before looking at Ngoc Anh. A look that made the little girl’s heart race. She clutched her mother’s shirt, whispering anxiously:

– “Mom… will I still get to see Dad?”

The nurse didn’t answer immediately. She turned and only pointed: – “Follow me.”

Before Ngoc Anh could even catch her breath, another sentence left her frozen:

– “But… the doctor said only immediate family members are allowed in. Child… who is your father?”

The question echoed down the long hallway, in a moment heavy enough to crush Ngoc Anh’s fragile heart. She turned to look at her mother, eyes pleading. But her mother’s face showed an indescribable pain, lips trembling, unable to speak.

The hospital corridor felt cold and empty. The nurse’s question cut into Ngoc Anh’s heart like a sharp blade. She parted her lips, eyes wide, but didn’t know what to say. To her, her father was the man lying in the emergency room, the one who had raised her, taught her, and loved her for the past eleven years. But her mother remained silent.

– “Mom… why is she asking me that? Isn’t he… my dad?” Ngoc Anh’s voice trembled.

Her mother, Ms. Hoa, squeezed her daughter’s hand, eyes brimming with tears:
– “He is your father… in my heart, in your heart. But… on paper…”

She hesitated, then turned to the nurse:
– “This girl is my biological child. Mr. Hung didn’t have time to complete the legal adoption, but from the very beginning, he has raised and cared for her. Please, let her in—at least to see him one last time…”

Ngoc Anh was stunned. Her mind was spinning. All these years, she had believed she was Mr. Hung’s biological daughter. She had never heard her mother say otherwise. Why was this secret revealed now, at this critical moment?

The nurse hesitated. Hospital regulations were strict. Only legal relatives—spouse, biological children with documentation—were allowed into the emergency room. A minor without her father’s name on her birth certificate made it extremely difficult.

Seeing this, Ms. Hoa quickly opened her bag, trembling, and pulled out a stack of old papers. Ngoc Anh’s birth certificate only had her mother’s name. The marriage certificate with Mr. Hung was from just a few recent years. The nurse looked over the documents and sighed:
– “I understand, but I cannot decide. Only the chief doctor on duty can…”

Ngoc Anh stood there, hands clasped together, tears streaming. She didn’t understand all the adult rules and complicated procedures. All she knew was that behind that door, her father was lying still, possibly moments away from leaving her forever. And if she wasn’t allowed in… she would lose the chance to see him one last time.

Her mother held her shoulders tightly, almost pleading:
– “Please, let me speak to the chief doctor right now.”

A short while later, the on-duty doctor appeared. He was a middle-aged man with a serious but kind face. The nurse explained the situation. He quietly looked at the mother and daughter, then met Ngoc Anh’s eyes.

– “You really want to see your father, don’t you?” he asked.

Ngoc Anh nodded, tears streaming:
– “Doctor… I just want to tell my dad that I love him. That’s all. After this… I might not have another chance…”

Her innocent yet heart-wrenching words silenced everyone around. The doctor sighed softly, then turned to the nurse:
– “Prepare protective gear for her. Let her in, but only for five minutes.”

The nurse nodded. Ngoc Anh whispered “Yes,” her heart racing. Her mother bent down, hugged her tightly, crying and whispering:
– “Be strong, my dear. No matter the truth, Mr. Hung will always be the one who loves you the most.”

At that moment, Ngoc Anh didn’t want to think anymore. She just wanted to run, open that door, and see her father one more time. She understood this might be her last chance.

The emergency room door swung open, and the blinding white light made Ngoc Anh squint. The nurse guided her inside, wearing a loose protective suit. Her mother stayed outside, eyes following her, hands trembling on her chest as if sending all her strength to her daughter.

Inside, the smell of disinfectant was strong, the monitoring machines beeping steadily. Mr. Hung lay there, gaunt, pale, an oxygen tube attached to his nose. His body was frail, a stark contrast to the strong father who used to carry Ngoc Anh across the yard.

Ngoc Anh froze. Her small legs trembled, wanting to step forward but feeling held back. The nurse bent down and gently encouraged her:
– “Go closer. He can still hear you.”

Those words snapped Ngoc Anh into action. She took a deep breath and approached the hospital bed, eyes red, looking at her father. Grasping his thin, cold hand, she choked out:
– “Dad… it’s me, Ngoc Anh… can you hear me?”

His closed eyelids twitched slightly. He tried to open his eyes, barely a sliver, his gaze dim but still warm. He struggled to move, as if to hold her hand. Ngoc Anh gripped tighter, tears streaming:
– “Don’t leave me… I haven’t even told you I got a perfect score in math yesterday. I haven’t said I love you…”

His lips trembled, breath shallow, but he managed to whisper faintly, brokenly:
– “…My… daughter…”

Just those three words made Ngoc Anh’s whole world explode with emotion. Regardless of paperwork or adult rules, he—through his trembling final voice—had acknowledged her as his daughter.

She pressed her face to his hand, crying:
– “Dad, I love you so much. Please be at peace… I’ll be good, and I’ll take care of Mom for you.”

A weak tear fell from his eye. He forced a smile. Then the monitoring machine started slowing, each beat fading. The nurse signaled that time was up. But Ngoc Anh wouldn’t let go. She wanted to etch this moment into her heart, never to forget.

A short while later, the nurse gently separated her. As the door closed, her mother embraced her tightly, both sobbing. Ngoc Anh wept:
– “Mom, Dad called me his daughter… he recognized me, Mom.”

Ms. Hoa held her daughter tight, her face a mix of pain and relief. For years, she had feared her daughter might feel ashamed upon learning the truth, worried that one day she might question her origins. But now, in his final moments, Mr. Hung had said it—with all his heart.

That night, the hospital was silent. Ngoc Anh sat beside her mother in the long corridor, eyes swollen but a small fire burning within her: memories of her father—no paperwork needed, no bloodline required—just love enough for her to carry pride in her heart forever.