A Child's Heartfelt Story About His Father
A young child recalls the love and struggles of their father, who worked tirelessly for their family, all while battling his own demons. A story about fish curry, village life, and an emotional loss that will stay in their heart forever.
That day, we were all sitting around the table, enjoying our food. There was something special about the meal—Mom had made her famous fish curry, and the fish was fresh, straight from the village lake. Dad had brought it himself, carrying the catch home with pride. I could still see his tired but happy face as he walked through the door, holding the fish in his hands like a treasure.
My dad is the best. I thought, as I helped Mom clean the fish. She showed me how to remove the scales, and I did my best, trying to help her in whatever way I could. I loved to see her smile, and it always made me happy to be part of the kitchen with her. But the fish curry, oh, the fish curry—everyone in our village loved it. I loved it too.
My dad works every day. He’s always out there, in the fields or at the lake, bringing in fish and fruits to sell. We have a small life, but it's a happy one. Every day, we roam the village together, carrying our fruits and fish to sell in the nearby towns. My dad never stays still. He is always doing something—working, earning, providing. He says he’s doing it all for me and for my future. And I know he means it. He loves us, even though he has a funny way of showing it sometimes.
This summer was like all the others. The lakes were full of fish, and the whole village was bustling with activity. Everyone was catching fish and selling them, all happy with their earnings. My dad sold his fish to the business people who came by the village, and he always came back home with something special. Sometimes, a sweet, sometimes a toy for me. But mostly, he came home with that tired look on his face, as if the work of the day weighed down on him. Yet, every evening, he’d smile and sit with us at the dinner table, no matter how exhausted he was.
But there was something else that always happened in the village. Every evening, after all the work was done, the men of the village gathered together. They drank together, laughing loudly and telling stories until the night grew quiet. And my dad—my dad was part of that too. He’d drink with his friends, laughing with them, talking loudly, until his words began to slur. It happened every night.
“Dad, don’t drink,” I would say sometimes, watching him stumble back home. “Mom will be worried.” But he never listened. My mom would look at him with a mixture of worry and helplessness. It was as though, for a moment, he forgot everything—forgot the hard work, the struggles, and everything he was doing for us.
That night, it was no different. Dad came home late, smelling of alcohol, his words mixed and not making much sense. I could see his face, flushed with the effects of the drink, his movements unsteady. Mom didn’t say much. She just quietly set the table and waited for him to calm down.
“Why, why?” Dad’s words slurred as he spoke to Mom, though none of us could really understand what he was trying to say. I didn’t want to hear it, so I quietly went to my room. I could hear them arguing, but I shut my eyes, hoping it would stop soon. I was tired too. But it didn’t stop.
Mom went outside to calm herself for a while. I stayed in my room, listening to the sounds of the night—the wind blowing, the chirping of crickets, and then, suddenly, a loud silence. I didn’t know why, but something felt wrong. I couldn’t sleep. I lay in bed, thinking about why my dad drank so much. Why did he have to hurt himself like that? Didn’t he know how much we loved him? Why couldn’t he just stay sober for us? Why couldn’t he see how much his family needed him to be strong?
And then, I heard it. My mom's voice, sharp and full of panic. “No, no, no!” she cried. My heart skipped a beat. I rushed out of my room, and there he was—Dad, lying on the floor, his eyes half-open, unmoving. My mom was crying, shaking him, trying to wake him up. But he didn’t respond.
“Dad! Dad!” I screamed, but there was no answer. His face, which I had always seen smiling, was now still and cold. I could hear my mom’s sobs, but I couldn’t feel anything except a growing emptiness. What had happened? What was wrong with him?
“Mom!” I shouted again. “Mom, what happened to Dad?”
Mom didn’t answer. She just held his hand, her tears falling onto his lifeless face. And then it hit me. He was gone. My dad—my strong, hardworking dad—was gone. The man who had worked so hard every single day for us, the man who had loved us with everything he had, was gone.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. My mind raced with memories of my dad—his laugh, his hard work, his tired but always loving smile. I remembered the smell of fish curry, the way he would bring home fresh fish every time. I remembered his gentle scolding when I misbehaved and his pride when I helped Mom in the kitchen. But now, it was all gone. The man I looked up to was gone, taken too soon.
And I understood. I understood why he drank, why he had those habits. Maybe it was the only way he could forget the weight of the world on his shoulders. He did everything for us, for me—for my future. But in the end, it wasn’t enough. It was never enough. And I felt the emptiness in my heart grow.
That night, I cried silently, thinking about how much I loved my dad. How much I would miss him. How much I still needed him. But I also knew that his love would always be with me. Even though he was gone, he had given me everything he could. And for that, I would be forever grateful.
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