My childhood memories of Jack were simple: an old bicycle, dusty construction clothes, and nights when he returned home exhausted, hands covered in cement. No matter how late, he always asked:
— “How was school today?”
He had no formal education, couldn’t explain calculus or literary theory, but he drilled one lesson into me:
— “You may not be the smartest in class, but study well. Knowledge earns respect anywhere.”
My mother farmed, Jack built. Our income was meager. I studied hard but never dreamed too big—until I passed the university entrance exam in Philadelphia. My mother cried. Jack sat quietly on the porch, smoking a cheap cigarette. The next day, he sold his old pickup, pooled some savings, and sent me off to college.
When he took me to the city, he wore a faded baseball cap, a wrinkled shirt, and carried a box of hometown food: a jar of jam, some roasted peanuts, and a few loaves of homemade bread. He looked at me and said:
— “Do your best, son. Study hard.”
I didn’t cry. But inside the box, I found a folded note:
— “I don’t know what you’ll study, but whatever it is, I’m proud of you. Don’t worry.”