Every June, as Father’s Day approaches, I feel a quiet ache in my heart—a silence that no greeting card or family brunch can ever quite fill. It’s not because I don’t celebrate Father’s Day now. I do. I have a family of my own, and I am a father. My children greet me with handmade cards and bright eyes full of love. But deep inside, there’s a space that remains untouched—a space shaped by the memory of someone I never had the chance to meet: my father.
I never saw his face in real life. He was taken away before I was even born.
After the fall of Saigon in 1975, my father—a soldier who fought for South Vietnam—was captured and sent to a communist re-education camp in the North. My mother was six months pregnant with me at the time. I can’t imagine the weight she carried: the fear, the loneliness, the burden of raising three children with a husband locked away, uncertain if he would ever return. She never really talked about him. Maybe the memories hurt too much, or maybe there just wasn’t time—she was a street vendor, fighting her own battles just to keep us fed and clothed.
Every 14 to 16 months, when she had saved enough money, she’d take the long, grueling trip from our home in Da Nang to North Vietnam to visit him. I never understood the journey then, only that it was important. Then one day, when I was seven years old, the visits stopped. I didn’t ask why.
But I remember it clearly: my mother wore a white mourning headband, gathered us, and took us to church. I can still hear the priest saying my father’s name, Peter Phạm Duy Nhượng, and praying for his soul to rest in God’s hands. My siblings and I sat in silence, unsure if we’d heard him right. I looked at my mother—her face buried in her hands, weeping. And in that moment, I knew.
I would never get to meet my father.
When I was a teenager living in the U.S., Father’s Day was the hardest. I remember my classmates chatting about where they were taking their dads, what gifts they had bought, or how they planned to surprise him. I would pretend to be busy with homework or a test, just to avoid the questions. I didn’t want pity. I didn’t want to explain. I just wanted to make it through the day without falling apart.
Now, decades later, I live in the United States, with a family of my own. I hold my children close, and I cherish every hug, every laugh, every moment. Being a father is the greatest gift I’ve ever known—and it has taught me so much about the man I never met.
Because even though I never heard his voice, I hear him in my heart when I’m struggling. When life knocks me down, I imagine him standing beside me, his hand on my shoulder, whispering, “You’ve got this, son.”
Even though I’ve never seen his eyes, I see his courage in my reflection. Even though I never felt his arms around me, I feel his strength in the way I protect my children.
My father was a soldier. A husband. A man who loved his family so deeply that he endured years of captivity, never knowing if he’d see us again. He fought for his country, for our freedom, and for the future he believed in.
And though I missed a lifetime with him, I carry his legacy every day.
Dad, I hope you know I think of you often. I hope you know that, even though I never got to call you “bố” in person, I do in my prayers. I hope that one day, when this life is over and the noise of the world fades away, God will allow me the greatest honor—to finally meet you in heaven.
And maybe, just maybe, we’ll sit together, not in silence, but in understanding.
Until then, I’ll keep your memory alive—through stories, through dreams, and through love.
Happy Father’s Day, Dad.
You are my hero. Always.
-Phạm Duy Tâm-