Dad's First Birthday

June 5, 2025

My father, Mao Sue Kong, was the youngest of four children. His life began in hardship—his father passed away when he was just a toddler, barely old enough to walk. His mother eventually remarried but left him behind to be raised by relatives from the Kong side. One of his half-uncles took him in, and by the time he was just eight years old and able to herd water buffalo, he was passed on to another half-uncle.

Although my grandmother started a new life, my father was, in many ways, an orphan. I have only faint memories of visiting her when we lived in California. By then, she was already bedridden, connected to a colostomy bag. I was too young to understand much—too young to fully to grasp that my parents had parents of their own.

Growing up, my father was the black sheep among the cousins who he helped raise. My mom used to tell us about how he'd have to carry one of his younger cousins on his back and he would pee all over my dad. He was literally shouldering responsibilities far beyond his years. After being pulled into the Secret War in Laos as a teenager, my dad picked up an addiction to opium—an escape from the pain he rarely spoke about. He served as a lookout during the war and once nearly died from a mine explosion. 

My dad didn’t always make the best choices. He struggled, as many do, and there were seasons of our lives that were difficult, even painful. I remember visiting him in prison as a child. I remember gentle reminders over the phone to eat my fruits and vegetables so I’d grow up strong. He showed love in the ways he knew how.

Our family was far from perfect. We kids were rebellious—some of us got into drugs, gangs, and partying. I’m sure my parents faced judgment from relatives who didn’t see what they were up against. I’ll never forget the sting I felt when my dad’s aunt—a woman who helped raise him—was honored with a celebration of life, and none of the uncles who were like brothers to my dad even reached out. Instead, they wanted me to invite my parents knowing that culturally it wasn't my place. That silence hurt. I lost a lot of respect that day.

But despite everything, my dad has always been my dad. He is a quiet, soft-spoken man—that's where I got it from. He’s kind, generous, and funny in his own gentle way. He showed his love through acts of service and giving. Even as teens, we knew that a ride somewhere or cash slipped into our hands was his way of saying, “I love you.”

Lee and I were rebellious as teens and were required to attend family counseling, which taught me something powerful: my father’s love language is acts of kindness and gift-giving. And when I reflect on it now, I see it so clearly. He is one of the most generous people I’ve ever known. No matter what they were going through, my parents always tithed. They gave, even when there wasn’t much to give. That humbles me—because honestly, giving hasn’t always come naturally to me. It’s something I’ve had to learn, especially since becoming a Realtor. People like my husband, who are natural givers, inspire me—and I recognize that same spirit in my father.

My mother’s love language was touch, and that’s definitely mine too. But today, as we celebrated my dad’s 79th birthday, I felt deeply grateful. Grateful for another year with him. Grateful for the chance to deposit more memories into our bank of time together.

This year is different—it’s his first birthday without his wife. I can’t imagine how heavy that must feel. The bittersweet ache of being surrounded by children who love him, while also feeling the quiet absence of the woman who shared his life. 

But today, we honored him. And I hope he knows how much he means to us.