Chapter 3: The Lost Light

I still remember the way my father looked at me—his eyes hollow with pain—as he watched me eat leftover scraps meant for a provincial MP’s staff. At the time, my father worked as a servant in the home of an influential politician. And even though he had no car or luxury, he rode his old bicycle ten kilometers to see me… always arriving reeking of alcohol. Let me take you back—to when I was born. Our family used to be wealthy. We ran a famous restaurant, renowned throughout the province. I was born during its peak. My parents were proud, too proud to believe their success would ever crumble. But three years later, it all collapsed. They separated. And I was sent away—to live with my aunt and uncle in a rundown shack overrun with mold. Every time my father visited me, he came drunk, wobbling on his bicycle. He had become like that because of the overwhelming pressure, humiliation, and the pain from the family’s downfall. Alcohol was his only escape. Eventually, his employer couldn’t tolerate his behavior and gave him a harsh warning. After that, my father tried to change. He drank less. He became more aware. I remember vividly—when I was in fourth grade, I desperately wanted a rolling suitcase. It was expensive—out of reach for a girl like me. But my father saved up. He quit drinking to buy that bag—just so I could have something like my classmates. Around that time, I had moved to live with my grandmother in a rural district because my aunt and uncle were relocating. They were too busy to take care of my sister and me, so they left us with Grandma. Life changed drastically. Instead of short tuk-tuk rides, I now had to take public buses for hours just to get into the city. Grandma was old. She loved me dearly, but she scolded me daily, especially when giving me pocket money. Every morning, I ate nothing but sticky rice, a hard-boiled egg, and fish sauce. I wore rough, secondhand clothes. At the time, I didn’t understand hygiene. My grandmother couldn’t help much—she was frail—so I wore the same underwear for a whole week. I reeked. My classmates would pinch their noses when I walked by. I didn’t know why at first, but I started eating alone at lunch. It was lonely… but peaceful. This went on for two years. Eventually, my sister—who had entered adolescence—realized what was happening. She helped me understand the source of the odor. From then on, things began to change. I learned. I cleaned. I gained friends again in elementary school. Back then, rolling suitcases were the trend. Everyone wanted one. I wanted one too. At first, I tried to be okay with not having it. But then… my father promised me one. He said, “Tomorrow, I’ll bring it for you.” And that was enough. I believed. The next morning, I woke up glowing. I smiled all day at school, thrilled that my dream was finally coming true. But that afternoon, I got to the school van late. Dad had left the suitcase with someone on the van but didn’t say my name. Coincidentally, there was an older girl named “Nong” (the same word he used—meaning “little one”). She thought it was hers. She took it. When Dad climbed on the van and saw me without the suitcase, I could see the shock in his eyes. He was devastated. For days, I thought he had gotten drunk and forgotten. But no… he had truly saved for that suitcase. Three days later, he came to the van to pick me up himself. When he didn’t see me carrying the bag, he was stunned. My sister and I stood frozen. Eventually, we asked the van driver. And there it was—the truth. That single suitcase, meant for me, had gone to someone else. That evening, as I sat beside my father on the concrete curb, neither of us said a word. He stared at the sky. I stared at his hands—cracked, calloused, trembling. In them was a receipt. Proof. Of a promise he tried so hard to keep. I thought I had lost the suitcase. But what I truly almost lost… was the man who fought the world just to make me smile. And for the first time in my young life, I realized something louder than words: Love isn’t always wrapped in ribbons. Sometimes, it comes on two tired wheels, smelling like sweat, shame, and sacrifice. And that kind of love… I would carry with me— longer than any suitcase ever could.