From my father's childhood to the small things I do

When I was small, I used to ask my father for a bedtime story. He rarely told fairy tales. He told me about his village instead — the mornings he waded across the fields to get to school, meals where the main dish was sesame salt, the oil lamp he studied under until late. He grew up in a poor part of the countryside, where opportunity was a luxury. I was too young to understand any of it; I only noticed how his voice went quiet in certain places.

It took me years to understand why he still slows the car whenever he sees someone struggling on the road. For him, being poor was never a story to tell for sympathy. It was something he never wanted anyone else to have to live through. I think I inherited that — not from anything he taught me, but from watching how he lives.

So when I finally started doing things of my own, I chose to go back to places that look like his village. A Tết market where everything is free in Đông Quan, gift packages for the elderly, a small study fund for the kids at a village school. Honestly, at first I did it for him. But one time a child who received a scholarship held my hand very tightly and said nothing at all. After that day, I did it for myself.

I don't think what I do is a big deal. Ten million đồng a year for one primary school will not change the world. But I believe it changes a few children, the same way one small chance once changed my father's whole life. If six years have taught me anything, it's this: kindness doesn't have to wait until you're rich. It only has to start.