A Pocket of Peace
“Now, as I look back at that picture, I see something deceptively indestructible about his smile. Behind those faint, shadowy circles, something softly glimmers in his dark eyes: perseverance. His smile is the smile of a man who gave everything so his children could have more.”
Nestled deep within the crevices of a wallet sits a picture, gently carved around the edges by the steady hands of time. It captures a simple, yet warming exchange between a father and his three-year-old daughter.
“Smile at Mommy, Monkey,” the man chuckles softly, his voice heavy with fatigue but warm, always warm.
“Okay Daddy!” the little girl’s voice chips in response. Her soft, dark brown hair bounces in playful pigtails, as free as the night breeze of the city outside. Each strand feels like a caress against his worn face — a whisper of softness amidst the hardness of his life. Her arms are wrapped tightly around him, and her face is lit with joy. Her sparkling brown eyes brim with energy, starkly contrasting her father's weary onyx eyes.
Their embrace fills the modest background of the room, the silver stars on the girl’s blue shirt catching the light like tiny shimmers of hope. In this moment, all the hardship of building a life in a new country fades, replaced by the peace of their shared world.
Every time I see this picture, I am immediately transported back to the distinct feeling of my cheek pressed against the coarse fabric of my dad’s shirt undershirt, rough from the years of wear. It carries the lingering scents of the city and the hours of work etched into every fiber. His dark eyes are rimmed with shadows, the faint traces of sleepless nights. His once smooth, raven hair now falls messily around his face, mirroring the sky outside—dark, yet resilient. Still, there’s an undeniable love in his gaze, a warmth that refuses to fade even in the face of exhaustion.
"You’ve had a long day, haven’t you, Daddy?" I ask, noticing the slowness in his movements as he brushes the rogue strands of hair out of my face.
“A long day, yes. But seeing you makes it better.” His words are gentle, and I cling to them without fully understanding what they mean. I didn’t notice the weariness in his eyes; all I saw was a man who always had time for me despite everything.
Later that evening, we sit together on the couch, and I hold a wind-up toy that he brought me from Jack’s, the 99 Cent Store on 40th Street as Curious George plays on the television. He would bring me one every week after work. Sometimes, there’d be a donut in his hand, too, just for me. I wind up the little fish, watching it skitter across the floor propelled by its tail.
“Look, Daddy! Isn’t it cool?” I exclaim.
He leans forward, elbows on his knees, smiling despite his weary eyes. “Very cool, Monkey,” he says. “But not as cool as you.”
I giggle and hop off the couch, bringing the toy closer to him. “Wind it up with me!” I insist.
He reaches out, his large, calloused hands enveloping mine as we wind the toy together. For a moment, I forget how exhausted he looks. To me, he’s just Daddy, the person who makes everything feel safe. "When I grow up, I’m gonna work like you," I declare proudly.
He laughs softly, though his answer flickers in his eyes as clear as day: No. “You’ll have a much better life than me and Mommy.”
I tilt my head, not understanding. “But why, Daddy?”
He smiles, but there’s a quiet sadness behind it. “Because you will chase your dreams. You’re going to accomplish things that Mommy and I have only ever dreamed of doing.”
I didn’t know then how much those words weighed on him. I didn’t know that his heart, once painted with the colors of his dreams, now only yearned for his children’s happiness and success. I didn’t know just how much his knees ached or that his back protested every time he bent down even though he was only twenty-eight years old. All I knew was that no matter how tired he was, he was here with me, laughing and playing with a toy that meant the world simply because it was from him.
I remember waiting for him by the door, my feet doing a happy-dance when I’d hear his key turn. “Daddy!” I’d yell, running down the hallway to throw my arms around him. “Finally you’re home! Let’s play!” And every time, despite the long hours, despite the pain in his legs and back, he’d kneel down, letting me crawl into his arms, his face softening into the smile I lived for.
“I missed you, Monkey,” he’d say, as though I were the only thing keeping him going. When I was younger, I didn’t understand his absence. I couldn’t grasp why my father chose to work on weekends when other dads were home. I thought he was selfish for choosing work over us — that working mattered more than I did. Looking back now, it wasn’t selfishness—it was selflessness that drove him. Every weekend shift he worked, every evening he spent on his feet was a sacrifice for our family. He wasn’t absent out of neglect, but rather, out of love.
“I’ll always be here for you, Monkey,” he’d say during our rare moments together. I took it for granted back then, thinking he meant simply being present. But now I know it was deeper—his love was in the long hours he spent away, in the days he stood on aching feet so I wouldn’t have to. It was written in the missed weekends and quiet moments when he thought no one was watching. Every toy, every smile, every shared moment was built on the hard hours he spent in that store.
Now, as I look back at that picture, I see something deceptively indestructible about his smile. Behind those faint, shadowy circles, something softly glimmers in his dark eyes: perseverance. His smile is the smile of a man who gave everything so his children could have more. As I reflect, I have an epiphany: the woman I am today is shaped entirely by those sacrifices. I am made of the countless hours my father spent working to make sure I could reach my dreams. I am made of the embarrassment he endured as he struggled to learn a new language, his thick accent betraying him in front of strangers. I am made of the weakened knees that trouble my dad now, twenty years later, from the thousands of hours spent standing in front of a cash register, day after day out without complaint. But most of all, I am made of his love—an unspoken, unwavering love that I now see was always there, even when I didn’t understand.
As I look at the picture now, I see more than just a hug between a father and daughter. I see hope. I see a promise—that no matter how hard life becomes, there will always be comfort in coming home. The love that fills that photograph hasn’t faded with time. It lives on in me, every step I take toward the future he worked so hard to give me. That picture, worn by years, holds the story of my father’s quiet heroism—a story that I carry with me every day.
Vishva Trivedi is a Fall 2024 finalist for the Rutgers Writing Centers’ First-Year Writing Spotlights. This initiative invites instructors to nominate students for outstanding work on a piece of reflective writing in their first-year College Writing course. To read more of the nominated essays, click here!