What my son taught me about time

November 12, 2024.

I still remember that evening.

The day Bánh Mì was born.

It was also the day Ngồi closed its doors.

On one side, a life just beginning.

On the other, a journey I had spent so many years building, now coming to a close.

The team went its separate ways.

The work stopped.

Everything that had kept me spinning each day suddenly fell quiet, all within a very short time.

Strangely…

I did not feel the loss as deeply as I had imagined.

I felt at peace.

That evening, I rushed into the hospital.

A nurse wheeled my wife out of the delivery room.

Bánh Mì lay nestled against his mother's chest.

Red all over.

So tiny.

At peace.

I stood there looking at the two of them.

Not knowing what to say.

Perhaps, in the most beautiful moments of our lives, we often find there is little we can say.

We simply stand and look.

And remember.

I remember gazing at him for a long time.

A tiny being who had just entered this life.

And from that moment on, I seemed to have stepped into another life myself.

No longer living only for myself.

No longer thinking only of what I might accomplish tomorrow.

All at once, a new question entered my mind:

What can I do to give this little boy a peaceful childhood?

Before Bánh Mì, I rarely thought about time.

However much of the day went by, it never felt like enough.

I was caught up in work.

In meetings.

In the world around me.

In unfinished plans.

In things I believed, back then, were so important.

I opened my eyes in the morning and went straight to work.

At night, worn out, I was still thinking about tomorrow.

Twenty-four hours in a day never seemed enough.

I used to think that with more time, I could do more.

Earn more.

Build more.

Go further.

Then Bánh Mì arrived.

And at some point, without quite knowing when, I began to see time differently.

In the blink of an eye.

Bánh Mì was no longer the baby nestled against his mother's chest that evening.

Every morning, he sits at the back of my wheelchair.

I take him to preschool.

He babbles, calling for Dad.

For Mom.

Then one day, he began to stand.

His feet still unsteady.

His body still swaying.

One step.

Then another.

I sat and watched.

Without hurrying him.

Without saying:

“You're growing up so fast.”

Nor did I wish time would stop.

I simply watched.

And noticed something very strange.

With every passing day, Bánh Mì grows a little.

Not much.

Just a little.

But day after day.

A little.

A little.

A little.

Until one day, you suddenly realize that the baby you remember can now stand on his own two feet.

Since becoming a father, I have begun to realize that time does not only move forward.

It moves in many directions at once.

For Bánh Mì, each passing day is another day of childhood.

Another day of growing.

Another thing he learns.

Another step he can take.

But for my parents, each passing day brings a little more gray to their hair.

Another day their backs bend a little further.

Another day they grow older.

Another day I draw closer to the day no child wants to think about.

And for me…

each passing day also means one day less of Bánh Mì's childhood.

One day less of my parents' youth.

One day less of my own youth.

Time plays no favorites.

It simply moves on.

Click.

Another day falls behind us.

We cannot pick it up.

Cannot tuck it away in a drawer.

Cannot ask for it back.

I used to think time was something I had to make the most of.

Now I understand…

Time is something I must learn to live with.

Not every day needs to be filled with getting things done.

We do not always have to run.

Some mornings, it is enough to take my child to school.

Some evenings, it is enough to sit beside my wife.

Some days, I come home and find my parents still there.

Sometimes I accomplish nothing grand.

But my heart is at peace.

And that is enough.

I am beginning to understand a simple truth of life.

As the bamboo grows old, new shoots rise.

My parents will grow old.

I will grow old too.

Bánh Mì will grow up.

One day, this little boy will make his own way, no longer needing Dad to take him to school.

Perhaps I will be sitting somewhere then, watching him go.

And I will understand…

that this was what I had wanted all along.

Not to keep him beside me forever.

But to have the strength to raise him until, one day, he can walk on his own.

I do not wish for time to slow down.

I only hope I will not live so fast that I overlook what is happening right before my eyes.

That I will not be so busy building a future that I forget the present is growing day by day.

That I will not be so intent on seeking a better life that I fail to see the beautiful life I already have.

Bánh Mì does not need a father who always succeeds.

He needs a father who is there.

There when he cries.

There when he learns to walk.

There when he stumbles.

There when he needs a hand.

And there on days so ordinary there is nothing to tell.

I think that, in the end, being a father may not be about how many great things we do for our children.

But about giving enough of ourselves to a small life that, when he grows up, he can enter the world with a peaceful heart.

Dear Bánh Mì,

I do not know who you will become.

Nor do I know where life will take you.

I only hope you grow up healthy.

And are loved fully.

That you learn to care for others.

To live with kindness.

To take responsibility for your own life.

As for me…

I will do my best to do my part.

As a father.

As a husband.

As a son.

As someone who works.

As a human being who takes responsibility for his place in this world.

Tomorrow, I will still get up.

Still work.

Still learn.

Still begin again wherever I need to.

Still take you to school.

Still watch you grow, little by little.

And perhaps that is how I am learning to live with time.

Not holding it back.

Not running away.

Just quietly walking beside it.

Another day passes.

Bánh Mì grows a little.

My parents grow a little older.

I grow a little older too.

Everything keeps moving.

Like the water out there.

Flowing on.

Flowing on.

Never returning.

But perhaps there is no need to return.

Because the most beautiful thing about time is not how many more days it gives us.

But that, within those numbered days,

we found time to love one another.

And if, one day far from now, when Bánh Mì is old enough to make his own way, I look back…

I only hope I can smile.

Not because I managed to hold on to time.

But because I did not let those days pass meaninglessly.

That is all.

A human life.

Perhaps that is all it needs.