When I got accepted into college, I had nothing — just a letter of admission and a dream of escaping poverty. My family was so poor that whenever we had a meal with meat, the whole neighborhood knew.

My mother passed away when I was ten. My biological father had disappeared long before I could remember his face. The only person who took me in was a man who wasn’t even related to me — my foster father, Mr. Minh.

He had been my mother’s best friend. A taxi driver living in a cramped room by the river, he barely earned enough for himself.

Yet when my mother died, he was the only one who stepped forward to raise me. Through my school years, he worked endlessly — sometimes even going into debt — just to keep me in class.

I’ll never forget the time I couldn’t afford my extra class fees. That night, he handed me a small roll of crumpled bills, the faint smell of disinfectant still on them.

“I just donated blood,” he said softly. “They gave me some money. Take it, son.”

Tears streamed down my face. Who donates blood over and over just to raise a child that isn’t theirs? My father did — all through my high school years. No one ever knew.

Years later, I was accepted into a prestigious university in the city. When the letter arrived, he hugged me tightly, tears glistening in his eyes.

“I’m proud of you, son,” he said. “Go. Study hard. Get out of this life.”

In college, I worked every job I could find — waiter, tutor, anything. Yet every month, he still sent me a few hundred thousand dong, even when I knew it was all he had. When I told him to stop, he scolded me:

“It’s my money. You’ll take it.”

After graduation, I got my first job at a foreign company. My first paycheck was 15 million dong, and I sent him 5 million. He refused.

“Keep it, son. You’ll need it more than I do.”

Nearly ten years later, I became a director with a six-figure salary. I begged him to move to the city with me, but he always refused. “I’m used to my simple life,” he’d say.

Then one day, he showed up at my office. He looked frail — his hair white, his hands trembling.

Sitting quietly, he said, “Son… I’ve been sick. The doctor says I need surgery. It’ll cost about sixty million. I don’t have anyone else, so… could I borrow some money?”

For a long moment, I couldn’t speak. Memories flooded back — the nights he went hungry so I could eat, the times he trudged through the rain to bring me food. Finally, I looked at him and said:

“No, Dad. I won’t lend you anything.”

He froze, eyes dimming, ready to leave quietly. But I reached out, grabbed his hand, and fell to my knees.

“Because you’re my father,” I said through tears. “There’s no borrowing between us. You gave up your whole life for me. Now it’s my turn to take care of you. My money is yours — always.”

He broke down and cried. I hugged him, feeling his frail body tremble in my arms.

After that day, he came to live with me. My wife welcomed him warmly. He refused to just rest — always helping with small chores. On weekends, we’d go out together, laugh, and enjoy the life he had once dreamed for me.

People sometimes ask, “Why do you treat your foster father so well? He barely gave you any money.”
I always smile and say,

“He raised me with his blood — literally — and the best years of his life. He wasn’t my real father, but he loved me more than anyone ever could.”

There are debts in life money can never repay. But if someone gives you love and sacrifice, the only right way to repay it is not with wealth — but with your whole heart.