Papa, as a son of a poor farmer, left school early and went to work in a factory, for education was for the rich then. So, the world became his school. With great interest, he read everything he could lay his hands on, listened to the town elders and learned about the world beyond his tiny hometown. “There’s so much to learn. Though we’re born stupid, only the stupid remain that way,” he said. He was determined that none of his children would be denied education.

Thus, Papa insisted that we learn at least one new thing every day. Though, as children, we thought this was crazy, it would never have occurred to us to deny Papa’s requests. We would talk about the news of the day at dinner time: no matter how insignificant, it was never taken lightly. Papa would listen carefully and was ready with some comments, always to the point.

Then came the moment ---- the time to share the day’s new learning. “Felice, tell me what you have learned today,” he said.

“I have learned that the population of Nepal is ...” Silence.

Papa was thinking about what was said and then he said, “Get the map; let’s see where Nepal is.” Then the whole family went on a search for Nepal.

By looking at us, listening to us, respecting our input, affirming (肯定) our value and giving us a sense of dignity, Papa was unquestioningly our most influential teacher. Later during my training as a future teacher, I studied with some of his most famous educators. They were imparting (传授) what Papa had known all along ---- keeping learning all the time. His educational way has served me well all my life.

When my father then died in June 2019, despite not wanting to leave my mother living up there all by herself, I couldn’t imagine moving in.

And even when Ma was diagnosed with breast cancer in late 2019, and I started splitting my weeks between my overpriced studio apartment in Brooklyn and the house upstate to help manage her care, I never considered giving up my city life to move to the suburbs. Absolutely not!

What spells failure more than a single woman in her 40s moving in with her mother near the small town she grew up in?

Then the pandemic hit. Suddenly, all the myths I had bought into about what success looks like and how we were supposed to live as adults began to break down. My mother was going through her final round of chemo, the last she needed to save her life, and yet I couldn’t be there.

And my mom needed me: She couldn’t go to the grocery store, physically deal with people coming to the door to make deliveries. She needed help getting to her appointments. That, after all, was why I’d been splitting my time between my place and hers to begin with.

So after a three-week quarantine, I went home to stay with Ma. The plan was to stay for a month at first-until things “got back to normal”. But, I’d already lost one parent; I wasn’t ready to face the potential loss of another

In months that I was living with Ma, something else had happened, too. Long riddled with anxiety issues, l was calmer, more in touch with nature and eating better. We were able to heal from the loss of my father.

It’s hard to talk to Dad sometimes. His silence about his feelings and thoughts made him mysterious and hard to see through. You could never break his hard shell and get to know him. And he seemed to want to stay that way too.

But a year ago when my relationship with my wife and career took a hit, I needed my dad to pull back the curtain so that I could see him as real and accessible. I was facing serious problems and I wanted to know whether he had faced them before and how he had found his way, because I felt like I had lost mine. In desperation, it occurred to me that sending an email might be the key, so I wrote him one , telling him about my regrets and fears, and I asked him to answer, if he felt like it.

Two weeks later, it showed up in my inbox: a much-thought, three page litter. Dad, a 68 -year old retired technologist and grandfather of four, had carefully considered my message, and crafted a response. He mentioned his lost love, the foolish mistake he made in career and the stupid pride he had between him and his parents. He comforted me that “life will still find its right track despite many of its twists and turns”.

I closed the email and started to cry, because I wished I had opened up earlier but was grateful it wasn’t too late. I cried because at 33, in the midst of my own struggles, his letter instantly put me at ease. And I cried because in the end, it was so simple: I just had to hit “Send”.

We’ve since had many email exchanges. This increasing communication opened a door into his world. My problems haven’t been magically solved, but getting to know my dad better has made the tough thing more manageable and life sweeter. It’s hard to tall to Dad sometimes, but I’m glad I found a way to talk to mine.