The Mixture of Amazement and Relief on my Father's Face is Something I Will Always Remember

Ever since I was young, I had wanted to impress others and be praised. It was an innate desire, born from my grim childhood filled with painful memories. My mother passed away when I was five. Since that day my father had been a hollow shell of his former lively self. Out of grief and despair that gripped his heart, he raised me with the single philosophy of his own late father: that I would learn to face the harshness of this cruel world not by being coddled, but by fighting these wolves face to face.

The memories of the past still haunted me everyday. I could vividly remember the slow encroaching days of my pathetic childhood spent in school, labor at a construction site and play. Every night my father would arrive home in filthy clothes from another arduous day of work. His cold, calculated demeanor as he checked my tests and counted the revenue each day always raised my hackles on edge. There was no praise if I performed well. And, even worse, there was only a disappointing sigh otherwise, and the depression and guilt that followed.

The construction site where I worked as a child was no cakewalk, either. The boss was extremely critical of all the workers and overworked us all day. Lifting and transporting heavy bricks, lending a hand to other older workers, listening to their yelling in the scorching summer days; it was draining work that occupied me every weekend, when I was free from school. If I could go back… 

A harsh ringing yanked me back to reality. I looked to my right, seeing a girl my age pick up her phone from her bag and put it to her ear. “Sorry about that, I forgot to mute my phone, hehe,” she spoke in a deceptively cheery voice. Her exhaustion was visible on her face. For a moment, I stood dumbfounded, having forgotten why I was standing in this distressed crowd of teenagers dressed in gaudy clothing. My eyes focused, and I realized she was talking to me.

“Oh, it’s fine,” I replied. “My bad, I was just thinking about something.” 

She nodded, and went to chat on her phone. Still feeling bizarre from my reverie, I looked forward, and saw a huge modern college. The front gate was beheld by a buff man in a black guard attire. A small poster near the entrance caught my attention: "Once all struggle is grasped, all miracles are possible."

Glancing at the name, the puzzle pieces in my head finally clicked. That’s right; I was sitting at the entrance of GIK, a college of my father’s dreams and the culmination of my hard work these past grueling four years, awaiting my results. A lump formed in my throat and the all-too-familiar feeling of nausea and anxiety. 

Someone to my right lifted his arm to look at his wristwatch. My heart skipped a beat; only 10 seconds left. As soon as the time hit 10 AM sharp, a loud intercom rang from the speakers overhead. After a moment of feedback, a gruff voice was heard: ‘You may see the results.’ The crowd before me immediately turned into a menagerie as the guard lifted the gates. The students flooded inside the college, dragging me along effortlessly. I dashed to the green-board at the end of the admission office, with a white paper pinned on it, holding my ground against the tides of impatient students. I scanned the list for my name. Time seemed to slow down as my eyes darted across the paper, searching for signs of recognition. It was filled with formal jargon and unfamiliar names that caused a sharp aching in my heart. Scanning from the bottom up, I did not realize I was holding my breath until it was caught in my throat as I saw my name printed in sleek, tiny letters around the top of the page.

My face flushed with incipient relief and the weight of dread and misery lifted off my shoulders like an eagle taking flight. The adrenaline of the remembrance of my past transmuted to the feeling of pure euphoria. I felt addicted, it was the best I had felt in an eternity. 

My heart nagged at me, and I realized that I had almost forgotten to call my father. I freed myself from the pandemonium of cheerful eureka's and pitiful groans, dialing my father’s number. The phone buzzed and rung, as I strolled with a stupid grin on my face, imagining myself all sorts of fantasies when I heard a quiet familiar tune to my right. A classical piano, slow and peaceful; a tune my father used for his ringtone. Swinging to my right, he stood there with a grim expression. He glances at his phone, seeing it ring for a moment, and then cuts the call. And turns his stony gaze towards me, rooting me to the spot.

‘How did it go?’, he asked as coldly as always, snuffing all my delight. 

‘I… passed, father.’ I intoned. ‘I came first, with all 9s.’ 

He stared at me blankly, and the nausea that had enveloped my heart a few minutes prior returned; my father’s expression was just as unreadable as it had always been. My legs suddenly felt like bricks, and I felt frozen to the spot. 

At that moment, my heart leapt into my mouth: The mixture of amazement and relief on my father’s face is something I will always remember. I was taken aback as he lifted a hand to his face to wipe a tear. ‘Your mother would have been so proud.’ Tears singed my eyes and blurred my vision as he extended his arms, inviting me for a hug. I accepted it without one thought. As he wrapped his arms around me, his elation was almost palpable that my own face flushed with warmth. It dawned upon me then; this was the fruit I had been looking for all my life. I had finally fulfilled my father’s wishes.