All images courtesy of Alden Ho.
Hi Dad,
The last time you read a letter from me was probably the one I scribbled in marker for Father’s Day when I was five.
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Neither of us would’ve thought the next one would be published online, much less 16 years later.
It’s been three years since I left Hong Kong to study in Singapore. You never mention how fast time has passed, but I can imagine the sight of me in a kindergarten uniform doesn’t feel too long ago.
It might be why you’ve always been so protective of me and our household—although first impressions may seem otherwise. Words famously don’t come easy to you.
People nowadays often talk about love languages. ‘Words of affirmation’ definitely isn’t your thing. You’re more of an ‘acts of service’ guy.
You’re the one fixing the air conditioner, ‘chauffeuring’ our family around, or mulishly pretending not to understand English just so I can improve my Cantonese.
You’ve given all of us more than we could ever ask for, and you make sure we never forget it, especially when someone dares to annoy you. These squabbles truly make you an Asian father to the core.
But all of this is surface-level compared to what you do when the truly sobering parts of life hit. When someone hits their breaking point, your thunderous voice softens—the cartoonish hubris and frugality disappear. For when a typhoon hits, you’re the lifebuoy that quietly keeps us afloat.
In these moments, I’ve never seen tears fall from your face—your signature handkerchief never fails to shield me from the sight. Even your greying hair gets dyed over, like a silent refusal to show the toll.
That tiny window into your world has only gotten foggier over these last three years.
If I even get a whiff of the slightest struggle, it’s always: “Don’t worry, I’ll handle it. Just focus on studying. Focus on getting your internships.”
On so many occasions, I find out about things after they happen—I’m not there for emergency hospital visits, emotional fallouts, or nights you spend rifling through a mountain of documents at the dining table.
After all, being thousands of kilometres away, I only get to see what happens after the dial tone.
It’s the duality of studying abroad: As much as my friends here envy my independence, I envy their ability to run back to the people they call home when they need to.
I understand now why you never wanted to send me or my sister to boarding school. This must’ve been what you felt throughout those long Canadian winters away from home during your college years.
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That comfort in proximity is something I took for granted. The days I want to go back most aren’t the holidays nor the birthdays, but the average days in between, when friends say: “I’m going home.”
It’s not like I can pass by you in the living room and casually drop a “What are you doing?” or “How’s your day?”
Calling each other feels heavy with intention, as if something must’ve happened if we’re talking.
When I see a missed call from you, my mind wanders. Maybe you just wanted to check in. Maybe it was something urgent. But if I notice it at 2AM after finishing my schoolwork, calling back might only worry you more.
And so we play this game: Me trying not to cause concern, you trying not to add to mine.
You reassure me when I regularly agonise over whether we can afford Singapore’s sky-high tuition fees: “Don’t worry, we can handle it, as long as we plan well.”
But I do worry. How can I not, when you’ve catered to my needs and wants since the day I was born? Making an effort to lighten the weight on you and Mum isn’t a choice for me, it’s a responsibility.
Whether it’s working odd tutoring jobs, finding unconventional ways to save, or staying up until sunrise to chase good grades and better internships, I’m trying to do justice to the sacrifices you and Mum have made for me to be here. The least I can do is make sure I’m not part of your burdens. Sometimes I think I’m becoming more like you. Maybe that’s how I stay close to home.
But even then, I still fear that even if I return to the nest, as I grow older and start living my own life, it’ll only get harder to know how you’re really doing.
As tough as it can be for you to communicate your emotions, I know the burden partially weighs on me for not giving you a space to share your thoughts.
And it starts with this open letter. I’m writing this to say: I want to know. I want to know if my dad’s okay. Not just on Father’s Day, but on all the other days in between.
When we call on a random Tuesday, I do want to hear about the slightly too-salty lunch you had. But I also want to know if something’s weighing on you.
The opportunities I chase can span the world because you and Mum have poured your blood, sweat and tears into making sure that I—and everyone else in this family—can live a good life. It’s time I do something for you, and it starts with this.
Don’t worry, I’m not telling you to suddenly dump your entire life’s traumas in one go. Just know I’m here. I’m ready to listen. Strength doesn’t have to mean silence.
I’m a little bit older now. Let me carry the weight of your burdens, as you always have for me.
Happy Father’s Day, Fu Can Zit Faai Lok.
