When Goodbye Came So Quietly

My father passed away several days ago in Vietnam.

I didn’t have the chance to see him one last time.

He left when I was one — a shadow in old photographs, a name others said softly.

We never found the closeness I sometimes longed for.

As a child, I was angry. Angry that he left us in poverty. Angry that my classmates bullied me because I didn't have a father.

Years passed. The anger faded into distance.

We began to reconnect, gently, awkwardly.

I showed care the way I knew how — a little money when I worked at the bank, lucky money every Lunar New Year, even after I married and moved to Australia.

But words like “I love you” never learned how to cross the ocean between us.

Now that he is gone, I see it more clearly.

Love isn’t proven by the value of a gift, but by the nearness of a heart.

I never had the chance to cook for him, to place a bowl before him, steaming and fragrant.

And yet, I hope he somehow knew — through those quiet gestures — that I was trying to love him in the only way I knew.

Our conversations were always brief.

Maybe because we didn’t know each other well.

Maybe because we didn’t know how to bridge the years of silence.

After a few polite questions about work, about weather, about health, the words would fade.

We would sit there, strangers bound by blood, both unsure how to begin again.

When I left, I always said it lightly — See you next year.

The same words, every visit.

But next year never came.

The promise of one more conversation, one more laugh, one more chance to make things right —

it quietly disappeared with him.

Now I look back and realise that love, even when unspoken, still existed between us.

Fragile, unfinished, quietly waiting for grace to complete what time could not.

Grief feels different when distance has always been there.

It doesn’t come like thunder.

It settles softly, like dusk — a slow ache that lingers in the pauses of the day.

I can’t touch his face or place flowers at his altar,

but I can honour him in another way:

by living kindly, forgiving freely,

and loving the people around me while I still have time.

Time — that word feels so heavy now.

It slips through our fingers faster than we realise.

Maybe that’s why God whispers, Love now.

Not only on special occasions,

not only in photos or gifts,

but in everyday presence —

a small meal, a phone call, a prayer whispered for someone who may never hear it.

Losing my father taught me something I didn’t expect:

even imperfect love can be real.

And grace can bloom in places where words were never spoken.

Once, my husband asked me,

“What dish does your dad like?”

The question embarrassed me — because I didn’t know.

Now it returns, quietly, like a voice carried by wind.

What dish does your dad like?

Mooncake with Tea

A tear falls onto the mooncake I have just baked.

Mooncake, I whisper.

My dad liked mooncake.

Dedicated to my father — with gratitude for what remains, and for what grace has quietly completed.