When my siblings and I were growing up, we always looked forward to the nights when my dad cooked. Not that my mom wasn’t a wonderful cook as well, but on Sundays, it was my dad’s turn in the kitchen. My dad cooked the down-home, American classics that he learned in the back of my grandparents’ diners. He would make us meatballs the size of baseballs, stuffed full of gooey mozzarella, and we would all shovel down three plates apiece of pasta and red sauce. My mom would laugh, and gag, and run out from the kitchen on those nights, because “the Parmigiano smelled like stinky feet.” Often, my dad would make bloody rare steaks and loaded baked potatoes, prime rib with the the smoothest, richest gravy, towering bowls of cheesy mashed potatoes, and restaurant-sized pots of steaming beef stew. It was our one, non-Chinese meal a week. 

A life-changing incident occurred in my family a couple years ago, and my dad was forced to retire. In the last couple of years, he’s had to re-learn many of the things we all take for granted each day, like how to take the bus, or read a newspaper, or sign his name at the bank. I was very angry and depressed when my dad had to go through all this so late in life. My heart ached to see the look of frustration and resignation on his face when his mind moved faster than his lips, and he could not articulate a funny story he wanted to share. I felt indignation and the need to explain (or to yell, or to defend) him whenever I thought I saw someone silently judging. Sometimes, I wanted to shout: “My dad’s been in an accident!” to onlookers who wouldn’t stop staring, but for some reason, the words would catch in my throat and I felt as if I would betray him if I let them out. I am my dad’s girl, and I have my father’s pride, so I bit my tongue. Sharing this experience–still, an experience I would never wish on another family–has brought our family closer. We now know the fragility of life, and what a miracle it is that my dad is still here with us today. 

Last year at our wedding, I became overcome by emotion and started crying minutes before I had to walk down the aisle. My dad took me aside and wiped my tears away. He told me he was so, so happy. He told me in Cantonese: “Don’t cry, you won’t be as pretty if you’re crying down the aisle.” He told me he loved me, and that he was so proud of me. That only made me cry harder. I’ll always remember that moment with my dad.

My dad is a different man now. He laughs a lot more, always sharing a private joke with my mom. They lean into one another like only a couple who’s weathered almost thirty years together do. He is more affectionate, and tells us he loves us more often. His life is slower, more relaxed. He walks our family dog, Jai Jai (“little son”), three times a day. They meander along the same route, like inseparable, old friends taking comfort in each other’s presence. He spends the rest of the day preparing dinner, slowly, and has it waiting for my mom by the time she comes home from work.

And though his life today is vastly different from the life he used to lead, one thing’s remained constant: my dad has always put his family first.

I hope he knows that we put him first, too.

Happy Father’s Day to the most wonderful dad in the world!