My father passed away at the age of 88. He died penniless, with no friends, and not a tear shed by anyone. He will not be missed. I know that sounds harsh, but my father was a difficult man, impossible to get along with. As he grew older, his paranoia—fueled by endless political talk shows on TV—made him unbearable to be around.
As I aged, like many do, my understanding of my parents began to shift. The pedestal I had once placed my father on began to crumble. I used to idolize him, much like how Justin looks up to me now. He would brag about how he came to the U.S. with just a few dollars in his pocket—a classic American Dream story. He often talked about starting his clinic from scratch and how he had to borrow money just to get by in the early years.
These stories were always shared over Chinese chess, tea, or dim sum—the three activities he loved most. But for all the hours spent over those tables, my father never taught me how to ride a bike, drive a car, or took us on a trip together. His life was work—364 days a year. He took one day off for Chinese New Year and spent the rest of the year working, without fail. We were not rich, but we never starved, and he provided as best he could.
These past few weeks have been difficult. Going in and out of the public funeral home, you are constantly surrounded by grieving families at every step. I peeked into some of the remembrance services for others who had passed away. Some had politicians come to give speeches, while another played a video of the deceased playing his favorite erhu, capturing moments from a life well lived. They were remembering the good times—something we struggled to do for my father.
My father’s remembrance had four attendees: my mom, my two older brothers, and me. There were no speeches, no stories shared. We didn’t have a collective memory of our father as we had not lived together for a very long time.
My father was a fugitive. He committed forgery on his application for Chinese medical license, along with a few of his buddies. Fearing prosecution, he fled from Pattaya to San Francisco. My mom was held in a women’s detention center for about a year before she was released. My grandpa (on my mom’s side) came up to Taipei to take care of us during the week, and we would go to my uncle’s (on my dad’s side) for the weekend. I remember visiting my mom at the detention center—a complete and utter devastation. To this day, I’ve never been more traumatized. I never forgave my father for putting us through that nightmare.
Following my mom’s release, my dad wanted me to go study in the U.S. with him. Mom and I flew to S.F., where I studied for a year before moving to New York. My mom would fly back and forth, splitting her time between Taiwan and the U.S. My parents spoke no English, so we primarily maneuvered in Asian-friendly neighborhoods. I ended up going to NYU on a partial scholarship. After graduation, I returned home and began my career in media and advertising. By most people’s standards, I’ve been successful. I’ve been an agency CEO numerous times, and I have a wonderful son. I should be content. I should be grateful. But something is missing.
The truth is, I am a product of my father’s mistakes. There was never a plan; it was a series of poor choices and impulsive decisions that landed me here. His impetuousness and cowardice led him to flee to America, and his selfishness separated us as a family, regardless of his intentions. He should have come home to face the consequences, but he didn’t. None of his friends went to jail—everyone got a slap on the wrist. My father fled Taiwan until his statute of limitations ran out. And yet, those same mistakes afforded me opportunities I could never have imagined. I received a great education, went to NYU, lived in the greatest city in the world, and my life took a different path from my brothers.
For most of my life, I’ve tried to hide my story, afraid of how people would perceive me. It’s only in the last few years that I’ve become comfortable sharing it. But it was that same inner fear that drove me to overachieve, to maintain an image I thought others expected of me.
And now, as I look back on my father’s life, I start to wonder if I’m repeating his mistakes in a different way. He fled from his responsibilities, and I’ve been running from something too—perhaps from the fear that I’ll never find the purpose or meaning I’ve spent my life chasing.
I’ve been thinking a lot about legacy. What will I leave behind when my time comes? I’ve built a successful career, raised a son, and checked off all the boxes that should define a fulfilling life. But none of it has given me the sense of clarity I thought it would. I envy those who seem to know exactly who they are and what they’re meant to do. For me, purpose has always felt just out of reach, like a question I can’t quite answer.
But as I wrestle with my own discomfort, I look at Justin. He’s still young, still full of potential. He doesn’t know yet what the world will demand from him, what pressures he’ll face to live up to expectations, whether his own or others'. I see in him that same innocence I had at his age, before I learned how life often dictates the choices we think we’re making for ourselves.
I wonder, should I let him find his own path? Or is it my responsibility to guide him, even if that means choosing the path for him?
There’s a part of me that believes it’s my duty to push him—to shape his future, to ensure he doesn’t waste his potential. After all, isn’t that what fatherhood is about? Making sure he becomes the best version of himself? But lately, I’ve been questioning whether that’s fair. Am I projecting my own insecurities onto him, my fears of failure, of not being enough?
As much as I want to shield him from the confusion I’ve lived with, I wonder if it’s possible to protect him without overstepping. Should I be the one steering him, or should I step back and let him stumble, let him find his own way?
I never had the guidance I needed growing up. Am I trying too hard to give Justin what I didn’t have, without realizing I might be smothering his sense of independence? It’s hard to know where the line is—between nurturing his potential and controlling his future.
A few nights ago, I pushed him too hard on learning Chinese. We ended up crying together for an hour. He cried because it was too difficult, and I cried because I felt I had failed him by being overly protective in the past.
I don’t know what the right answer is, and I think I’ll struggle with finding that balance for the rest of my life. Maybe it’s okay not to know until I’ve reached the finish line.
Maybe I’ll leave the answer to Justin.