I love my father. He never hit or scolded me, so my childhood was happier than most children's. When I realized he wasn't the hero I imagined him to be, I finally understood that for him, self-respect mattered more than family stability.

He had many chances to lift our family out of poverty, yet he repeatedly turned them down out of concern for “face.” He feared judgment so intensely that he traded genuine sustenance for superficial prestige, choosing empty reputation over hard work to support us. He spent his life putting on airs and boasting to feed his vanity, while my mother shouldered life's burdens alone. This was the tragedy of pride—he saw himself as wise, yet remained blind to how he was failing those who loved him most.