Dear Pa,

On your birthday, I write to you, expressing my raw and unfiltered emotions, even if the subtle nuances and profound depths of this letter remain elusive. I write for freedom and perhaps to romanticize the imperfect yet beautiful dynamics between a father and daughter.

Dear Pa,

Do you know that I bear your resemblance?

Many times throughout letters or conversation from dear friends, I can sense words echoed similar themes, describing me.

They used comparable nouns to depict me: "kind," "warm," "safespace," "unthreatening," "glue of friendship," "affectionate," "giver," the very words people use to describe you.

When I was young, I encountered much, perhaps more than I could handle. One night, while pretending to sleep in the room with Ma, you caressed my head and whispered, "The world belongs to those who are brave, sayang." I can still hear the tremor in your voice, as it spelled solace, an unwavering mantra that kept me warm through the coldest nights. When I stumbled or faced uncertainty, I embraced audacity, for I knew you fought relentlessly so I could afford to be brave—because I knew, often in the past, you couldn't afford it. That bravery is a choice you made possible for me with what you (we) lost.

But what if I told you, Pa, that I am not brave?

What if the altruism people perceive in me is merely a selfish guise to compensate for my fear?

Ocean Vuong, in his literary work, expressed that sometimes, in his carelessness, he believed survival was effortless: just keep moving forward with what you have, or what remains of what you were given, until change occurs, until you discover that you are still breathing after the storm has passed.

Yet, because I am your daughter, Pa, survival alone was not our pursuit, and in that aspect, I (sometimes hate to) share your view.

If there is one thing I deeply appreciate about you, it is that you always show up. Most of the time, you didn't know the right words to say, trapped within a patriarchal culture where society expected you to "man up," causing you to remain silent or, on rare occasions, say the wrong thing. But you never hid or abandoned us. I remember looking at you for a long time and because I was still a kid, I thought I could simply transfer my thoughts into your head if I stared hard enough. Clearly, you had no inkling of my thoughts or feelings, yet you rubbed my back nonetheless.