Many sons think talking to their old parents is the most boring thing in life
He asked me the same question three times in five minutes — and I was this close to snapping at the man who once answered me twenty-seven times in a row, smiling every single time.
My dad is eighty-three now. He walks slower, speaks softer, but his eyes still carry that same quiet spark when he looks at the world. That evening we were sitting together on the old front porch of our house — the same one I grew up in. The wooden chairs creaked gently, and the air smelled like freshly cut grass, apple blossoms, and a warm summer night.
Suddenly — a flash of color on the fence. A small blue-and-yellow bird, maybe a chickadee, landed on one of the boards.
“What kind of bird is that, son?” my dad asked quietly.
“A chickadee, Dad,” I said, not even looking up from my phone.
A few seconds of silence.
“And what kind of bird is that?” he asked again.
I sighed louder. “I just told you, Dad. A chickadee.”
His chair stopped rocking. The air between us felt heavy, like right before a storm. And then again:
“So… what bird is that, son?”
Something inside me snapped.
“A chickadee, Dad! How many times are you going to ask the same thing?!” I burst out.
The words came out like broken glass, cutting through the silence. Dad slowly stood up, holding onto the railing for support, and walked inside without saying a word. I stayed there alone — angry at myself, but too proud to call after him.
A few minutes later, he came back. In his hand was an old, worn notebook with a leather cover. He placed it gently on my lap.
“Read,” he said calmly.
I opened it. The handwriting was familiar.
“Today I sat on the porch with my three-year-old son. A little bird landed on the fence. My boy asked twenty-seven times: ‘Dad, what is that?’ And every single time I answered with a smile: ‘That’s a chickadee, son.’ Every time I kissed his forehead, patted his head, and thanked God for his curiosity. It was a perfect day.”
The words blurred in front of my eyes — not because of the dim light, but because of the tears that suddenly filled them. That little boy… was me. The same one who asked a hundred times and got a hundred answers. With love. With patience. Without irritation. Without anger.
And now everything had reversed.
He asks. And I don’t have the patience.
That’s when I understood more deeply than ever before. We forget so easily that our parents once taught us how the world works. They answered our endless “why?” questions. They stayed awake through the night. They held us when we cried. And they never complained.
They don’t need our money or expensive gifts. As they grow older, they want something much simpler: our time, our patience, our gentleness — and a small piece of the same love they once gave us without limits.
Because one day, we’ll be the ones sitting in that same rocking chair. And we’ll ask something for the third time.
And we’ll quietly hope someone is sitting next to us — someone who will answer not with irritation, not out of obligation, but with the same tenderness we were once raised with.
That’s the real circle of life. The circle of love.
And maybe the only inheritance truly worth leaving behind.
Adapted from the story shared by our friend, Motorland on Saturday, 14 February 2026.
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| By Fauzi Kadir Chief Editor
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