When I was younger, Father’s Day didn’t mean much to me.
Not because I didn’t love my dad—but because I didn’t really know how to.
He wasn’t the kind of father you see in movies. There were no big hugs. No emotional talks. No “I’m proud of you” moments wrapped in swelling orchestral music.
My dad was a man of structure. Of grit. Of long hours and quiet dinners and standards that were never quite spoken, but always understood.
He didn’t explain love. He modeled it. In the only way he knew.
The Man I Thought He Was
For most of my life, I saw my dad as a set of rules. A code. A man who didn’t flinch when I cried, didn’t soften when I failed, didn’t waver no matter how tired he must’ve been.
I remember once getting hit in the mouth during a game—blood dripping, tears welling. My dad didn’t rush over to comfort me. He yelled at me for crying.
At the time, I thought it was cold. I thought he was cold.
But now I know he wasn’t trying to toughen me out of cruelty. He was scared. Scared that if I gave into pain too easily, the world would chew me up and spit me out. That if I got too soft, I wouldn’t survive it.
He didn’t have the luxury of softness. And in some ways, he didn’t think I should either.
What I Missed
I didn’t see what he gave up.
I didn’t see the second job, the aching feet, the nights he skipped dinner to work overtime.
I didn’t see the dreams he put on hold. The ones he never even named, because naming them would make the sacrifice real.
I just saw the pressure. The expectations. The discipline.
But underneath that pressure was hope.
Hope that I’d have a life he never could.
That’s the thing about invisible labor—it doesn’t show up in photos or resumes. It lives in the background. Quiet. Steady. Constant.
And that’s where he lived, too.
The Storyteller
If I remember one thing most, it’s this: the stories.
After long days, even when I thought he was half-asleep on his feet, he’d tell me stories about Chinese generals, Buddhist monks, and mythical creatures from Journey to the West. He made our history come alive. He made me curious about where I came from, even as I tried to run toward where I was going.
That was his way of giving me roots, even when I didn’t want them.
And when he enrolled me in Chinese school, made me learn idioms like “塞翁失马”—the old man lost his horse—I rolled my eyes. But now I get it. He was teaching me to see the long view. That loss can become fortune. That nothing is as simple as it seems.
He wasn’t just raising me. He was trying to preserve something.
Not the Words, But the Actions
He never said he was proud. He never told me I was enough.
But he never missed a parent-teacher meeting.
He never said no to driving me to practice.
He never stopped asking about school, even when he didn’t fully understand the system.
That was his language.
Acts, not words.
Consistency, not compliments.
Responsibility, not reassurance.
It took me years to understand that love can look like this. Quiet. Harsh. Steady.
And that sometimes, silence is not the absence of emotion—but the only way some people know how to carry it.
To the Fathers Who Were Never Told
If you’re a father like mine, this is for you.
You might not hear “thank you” very often.
You might feel like your work is taken for granted.
You might think your children will never understand what you gave up to give them a chance.
But one day, maybe later than you’d like, they will.
They’ll look back and see the second job. The bills paid. The dreams delayed. The nights you stayed up not saying a word, just making sure things didn’t fall apart.
They’ll remember the discipline, the pressure, the standards—
and they’ll realize those things were never meant to break them.
They were meant to protect them.
My Father’s Day Message
Dad, I don’t know if I ever told you this, but I see you now.
I see what you gave up.
I see the weight you carried.
I see that everything you did was your way of loving me.
Even the things that hurt. Even the things I resented.
You weren’t perfect—but you were present.
And that mattered more than I ever realized.
This Father’s Day, I’m not celebrating an ideal.
I’m honoring a man.
My father.
At A Tiger Cub, we tell stories like these—honest, complicated, rooted in the immigrant experience. Parenting isn’t always soft. It isn’t always visible. But it shapes us—quietly, powerfully, permanently.
If this resonates with you, I invite you to share your own story.
