My dad was a typical Chinese father—hard-working, quiet, and stoic. He never said “I love you,” and hugs were as rare as a Wi-Fi signal in the mountains. If you wanted affection, you went to Mom. If you wanted someone to silently fix the leaky sink at 3 a.m., that was Dad.
My siblings and I grew up watching him work long hours at the family restaurant. He wasn’t the head chef or the manager. No, he was all of it—chef, cleaner, accountant, human rice cooker. The man could chop vegetables while calculating taxes in his head and listening to the news on a battered AM radio.
Despite his no-nonsense demeanor, Dad had one soft spot: food. If love languages were real, his was “Acts of Service, Drenched in Soy Sauce.”
When I got a good grade, he didn’t say “Well done.” He handed me an extra egg roll.
When I broke my arm in third grade, he didn’t say “Are you okay?” He silently peeled me an orange and handed it over like a medical prescription.
And when I came home crying from my first breakup, he didn’t ask what happened. He just knocked gently on my door and wordlessly slid a bowl of hot congee under it. Comfort food delivery: Father Edition.
The real kicker came during college. I called home once after midterms, exhausted and surviving on instant noodles. I casually mentioned I missed home-cooked food. A week later, a suspiciously heavy box arrived at my dorm. Inside? Vacuum-packed portions of Dad’s famous braised pork belly, meticulously labeled in his tiny handwriting. One said “Eat this after exams” and another said “Spicy—good for stress.”
Still no “I love you,” but I swear the meat was marinated in fatherly concern.
One Chinese New Year, I decided to return the favor. I made him a handmade card. On the front, I wrote: “To the Best Dad in the World.”
He opened it slowly, stared at it for a while, then looked at me and said, “Why waste money on this? Next time, just buy me soy sauce.”
But he placed the card on his nightstand and never threw it away.
And one day, years later, after I got my first job and told him I was moving out, he nodded. No smile, no tearful speech. Just nodded and asked, “You want me to help you move?”
“Yes, thanks,” I said.
That weekend, he showed up with an entire cooler full of dumplings and a toolset. We didn’t talk much, but every nail he hammered and every dumpling he stashed in my freezer was his way of saying, “I’m proud of you.”
Now that I’m older, I’ve realized something: My dad was like a Chinese drama with no subtitles. Quiet, subtle, but packed with emotion—if you knew where to look.
He may not have said, “I love you,” but his fish was always steamed just right, his rice was always warm, and his love? Well, it was always there—you just had to taste it.
