I don’t remember my parents’ faces.
No photos. No memories.
Just a void.
What I do remember is the sting of belts, the sound of slammed doors, and the cold words of foster parents who never wanted to be parents at all. I don’t know why they took me in—if they had no patience for a boy who screamed in his sleep, crying for a mother and father he barely remembered.
When I was 12, a family visited our foster home. I don’t know what they saw in me, maybe just a broken thing in the corner.
But I heard her—my foster mother whisper to them, just loud enough for me to hear: “He’s useless. Leave him to his condition. This boy won’t change.”
That voice still echoes in my ears like a curse.
That night, I packed my little belongings, walked out the back door, and into the streets.
I scrubbed car tires. I mopped restaurant floors. I begged to wash utensils in exchange for scraps.
There were nights when my dinner was the half-eaten leftovers on guests’ plates.
And then one night, a chef saw me licking curry from a used dish.
He didn’t yell. He just said: “Hey, boy… You’re coming with me tonight.”
I don’t know why—maybe he saw himself in me.
This was the same man who shouted at everyone in the kitchen, even me.
But the moment I stepped into his home, something changed.
The shouting didn’t hurt anymore. It felt… warm. It felt like someone finally cared if I messed up.
It felt like love.
Today, I’m 40.
I run my own restaurant.
And that chef? He’s my dad now.
Still shouts in the kitchen when the orders pile up. Still scolds me for chopping onions too slow.
But every time he yells, I smile through my tears.
Because after all those silent years…
I finally have someone who can shout at me
—with love,
—with pride,
—with the authority of a father.