Today marks the thirteenth Father’s Day without my dad. Sometimes, I wonder how these thirteen years have passed without him being with us. The answer swiftly comes out as he is always on my mind; life must go on no matter what, and time indeed can heal pain. Today, I don’t mind counting the years; instead, I’ve learned to enjoy it, seeing it as a lovely ritual between my dad and me.

Dad, I have something important to share with you about a family event that has impacted us all. On March 15, mom fell and fractured her hip bone. She underwent surgery and spent a month and a half in the hospital.

What I want to convey is something about mom that you might not have known throughout your time with her. For years, we’ve seen her as a strong and dominant figure—someone who prioritized her self-esteem over affection and control over tenderness. However, now that she is lying in a hospital bed, weakened by vulnerability after the surgery, I am witnessing a different side of her: she can be that open, and surprisingly childlike.

In this moment of suffering, she expresses her emotions more honestly and lovely than ever before. She cannot help but share her fears, worries, and frustrations with a rawness I never thought possible. Her complaints about the ward assistants, her longing for comfort, and her feelings of helplessness make her seem less like the formidable woman we once knew and more like someone in desperate need of love, care, understanding, and accompanying.

At first, I struggled with this realization. Perhaps it’s because familiarity feels safer than the unknown. Or maybe it’s because seeing someone who once seemed tough now appear so fragile makes me confront the inevitable truth that reality can change everything. Deep down, I might have also grown accustomed to her complicated character, and now, witnessing her in this simple state forces me to redefine my feelings toward her.

As days go by, I find myself cherishing this version of her more and more. She is expressing herself in ways she never did before. There is no embarrassment even when she moans to us that she must wait an exorbitantly long time to change the diaper; she doesn’t put up a strong front anymore. She is simply being herself—honest, raw, and in need of love and care.

Dad, this experience has taught me that people are complex, and sometimes we don’t truly know them until reality strips away their defence and pretence. Love is also complex. It’s not just about the happy moments; it’s also about the times when we stand beside someone in their weakest moments, offering them warmth and presence that they might have once struggled to show us.

Now, as I hold her hand and listen to her words, I know that every moment is precious. I don’t know if she will return to her old version once she regains her strength, but I do know that this period of openness, honesty, and unfiltered emotion has given me a new way to love and understand her. For that, I am truly thankful.

Dad, I want to reassure you that mom is on her journey to recovery, and she is progressing much better than others in her age group with similar conditions. In addition to sharing something you might not have known about mom, I want to say aloud to you that in comparison to the enormous pain and fear you experienced while confronting a deadly illness in the hospital, you appeared silent and strong, you are our giant—a truly great giant!