Daddy is a man of few words and even fewer gifts.
Growing up, he was always around but at the same time, distant. I suppose it’s the language barrier. Coming from a poor family background, Daddy’s English wasn’t great and his daughter was a banana at best.
Communicating was difficult at times. He struggles to convey his feelings and doesn’t understand when I wax lyrical about mine.
But Daddy shows his love in other ways.
When my heart was broken, he didn’t have the words to comfort me.
He doesn’t offer words of advice, nor tell me things that I already know. He didn’t try to find fault in him, nor scrutinize his daughter for what’s wrong.
It didn’t matter who’s the saint or who’s the sinner. Cause when it comes to heartbreak, there are no winners.
He would come into my room when it’s late and he knows I am not asleep.
Gather all of me in his arms while my face crumple and leak, and I dissolve into a mess of what was a person.
He would listen to my endless monologues, punctuated by sobs and hiccups.
He doesn’t say anything when my tears soak into his shirt.
And I would think that he didn’t care, but the next day, he would slave at the stove for hours on end;
Ah Girl, Papa made you Hokkien mee.
Tell Papa what else you want to eat. We will make all of your favourite food.
Anything you want, as long as you stop crying.
I was wrong.
Time doesn’t heal broken hearts. Love does.