Dad doesn’t say “I love you,” but he’ll pick me up at 2 a.m.
Mom doesn’t say it either, but there’s always milk tea waiting in the morning.
Dad’s not gentle, but he stays up to hear me come home.
Mom’s not soft, but she listens when I vent.
Dad asks about my grades—it’s annoying, but it’s how he cares.
Mom doesn’t spoil me, but she always brings something back from work for me.
Their words sting, but it’s the only criticism I trust.
They didn’t coddle me; they taught me resilience.
They’re not the sweetest, but neither am I.
After all these years, I get their language—a language only we understand.