My first memories of my father are the faint scent of cigarettes and strong arms. He was a stern man, with a cold gaze towards the outside world. But every time the door closed, his gaze was filled with tenderness and boundless love. He would sit at the old wooden table, helping me with math, carefully writing down my scribbles. His love for me did not need flowery words, it was present in every action, every breath.

My father was always proud of me. Wherever he went, whoever he met, he would pat me on the shoulder and boast: “That’s my daughter, good at studying and obedient.” Those words were like a badge of honor, making me feel special and lucky. I grew up with the absolute belief that my father was the hero of my life, that the love he had for me was the purest and most unconditional love in the world. But the seeds of doubt had begun to sprout, quietly sown in my soul without me knowing.

My mother is a completely different woman. She is gentle, hard-working, her skinny hands are always busy. From early morning until sunset, she works non-stop. I grew up with the image of my mother with a hunched back, tired eyes, but still trying to take care of every meal and every sleep for the whole family. She doesn’t talk much, just works quietly, like a diligent shadow in our house. I love my mother, but that love is always compared to the intense love my father has for me, and that comparison has created an invisible wall.

And the distance between them grew bigger and bigger. One time, I saw my mother sobbing in the kitchen, her thin shoulders shaking. I knew it was after my father had yelled because my mother forgot to clean up the shirt he left on the sofa. My father was still calmly sitting in the living room watching TV, as if my mother’s crying was a sound that didn’t exist. I couldn’t stand it anymore, so I ran to my father and asked, “Dad, why do you always scold my mother? You love me, why don’t you love my mother?” My father looked at me, his eyes still full of affection, but his voice carried a strange coldness:

“Mother and daughter are clumsy, must be trained. Father’s daughter is different, must be cherished.”

Those words were like a knife cutting into my heart. I wanted to believe in that distinction, but my heart ached. I saw my mother silently, wiping away tears, holding back sobs. She never let me see my weakness, never wanted me to feel awkward. Her silence only made me more heartbroken. I became a helpless witness in my own home, a home filled with love but lacking respect.

As each day passed, I felt the distance between my mother and father grow. My mother tried to do everything perfectly, but it seemed that her perfection was never enough for my father. My father always found a weakness, the smallest mistake to scold. I wanted to speak up, to protect my mother, but every time I opened my mouth, I saw my father’s proud eyes looking at me. That love was heavy, becoming an invisible chain, keeping me in silence.

Then one day, I knew I could no longer remain silent. That was the day my mother decided to leave. The room was filled with tension. My mother put her small suitcase on the floor, her eyes red, looked straight at me and said in a trembling voice: “I can’t take it anymore. I want a divorce.” Those words were like a thunderbolt, leaving me speechless. I looked at my father and saw him stunned. His eyes were filled with surprise, then turned to anger. “What did you say? Divorce? Do you dare to leave this house? Do you want your daughter to be known as having divorced parents?”

Dad’s voice was harsh, full of authority and anger. Both my mother and I were surprised. For the first time in my life, I saw my mother no longer silent. She burst into tears, screaming, sobs bursting out with the pain that had been buried for so many years. “I’ve lived with you for 30 years, I’ve endured enough! I’m not your servant to order around! Have you ever truly loved me, or do you just see me as a shadow, something you can compare to your daughter?!”

Those words were like a punch to the chest. Neither my father nor I could say a word. I felt my hands shaking, my heart pounding. I wanted to run to hug my mother, wanted to say that I understand her, that I support her, but I was afraid of my father’s eyes. I saw the brokenness in those eyes, the pain of the person he considered his own wanting to leave. I wanted to hold my father’s hand, wanted to say that I’m still here, but my heart ached as I remembered the times my mother silently wiped away her tears alone.

“Dad, Mom… I beg you, don’t do this again.” I burst into tears, my voice broken by the pain, but my words seemed to fall into the void. Dad and Mom still looked at each other, between them was an invisible wall, containing the pain and hurt of the past 30 years.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. In the darkness, I heard my mother sobbing in the next room, and my father sitting on the porch, sighing. I suddenly realized that my father was not as indifferent as he appeared, and my mother was not weak. Both of us were just too tired in our own ways of loving and enduring. My father loved me, but that love became a burden for my mother. She endured because she didn’t want me to be in a difficult situation, but that endurance unintentionally pushed her away from me. We both lived in a vicious cycle of sacrifice and pain. I didn’t know how to advise her. If I supported my mother in divorcing me, I was afraid my father would collapse. If I advised my mother to stay, I was afraid she would continue to live in pain. What should I do?

The next morning, I woke up with puffy eyes. Mom and Dad still hadn’t spoken to each other. Breakfast was a suffocating silence. Dad was still sitting in his usual chair, Mom was busy in the kitchen, no one dared to look at each other. I felt I couldn’t stand it anymore. I was so tired of this silence. I put down my chopsticks, took a deep breath and began to speak, my voice still shaky but more determined than ever.

“Mom, I’m sorry for not saying anything sooner. I understand how much you’ve suffered.” I looked straight into Mom’s eyes, she was startled. “And Dad, I love you, you’re my hero. But your love for me has unintentionally hurt Mom. You’ve always been proud of your daughter for being obedient and a good student, but do you know that pride has created a burden for Mom? Do you know that every time you scold Mom, I feel pain? Dad loves me, but he doesn’t love the person who gave birth to me and raised me. I don’t want you to divorce, but I also don’t want to see Mom continue to live in pain. I want you two to be happy, happy together.”

My words were like a bullet that pierced straight into Dad’s heart. Dad bowed his head, his shoulders shaking. It was the first time I saw Dad cry. He was no longer the strict and strong man. He was just a father, a husband who was falling apart before his own mistakes. “Dad… I’m sorry.” His voice choked, full of regret. Mom looked at Dad, her eyes filled with tears. The pain in her was still there, but I saw a glimmer of hope in her eyes.

I ran to my mother and hugged her. “Mom, don’t go. Give dad a chance, give our family a chance. You and dad have gone through so many hardships together, just because of one mistake you’re giving up?” Mom hugged me tightly, she burst into tears, her sobs seemed to pour out all her sorrows. “Mom… I don’t want to go either. I just want dad to understand that I’m also human, I have feelings, I have pain.”

Dad walked over and knelt down in front of Mom. “I’m sorry. I was so selfish and heartless. I thought that as long as I loved you and cared for you, everything would be fine. I was wrong. I never wanted you to suffer. Please give me a chance to make things right, okay?”

Mom looked at Dad, then at me. She was silent for a long moment, then nodded slightly. It was a small nod, but to me, it felt like a rebirth. The tension in the room was gone, replaced by a sob and a warm glow.

After that time, our house began to change. Dad stopped yelling, he learned to listen. Mom stopped being silent, she began to speak her mind. Dad would ask Mom: “What do you want to eat today? How about we go out to eat?”, and Mom would smile, her warm voice would reply: “It’s up to you, whatever you like, we’ll eat.” They were no longer two opposing individuals, but they began to become a couple, a real family.

I realized that my father’s love for my mother was not nonexistent, but that love was hidden under his patriarchy and pride. As for my mother, she endured not because she was weak, but because she loved my father and me so much. I became the bridge, helping my father and mother see the pain and deep desires in each other’s hearts.

Today, my father bragged to his friends: “That’s my wife, she cooks the best food in the world!” I smiled, feeling relieved. Love, sometimes, doesn’t need to be too exaggerated, just needs understanding, respect and a little tolerance. We, a family that was once on the brink of collapse, have now found a peaceful shore, where love is no longer a burden, but the strength to overcome all difficulties.