The Journey to Chicago
The day he drove me to the city, I finally understood the depth of his love.
He wore an old baseball cap and boots that pinched his feet. In his calloused hands, he carried my suitcase—and a cardboard box filled with “hometown gifts”: jars of jam, a bag of cornmeal, and Grandma’s cookies.
At the dorm gates, he patted my shoulder.
“Do your best, kid. Study well.”
That night, while unpacking, I found a folded paper inside the cookie tin. In his crooked handwriting, it read:
“Dad doesn’t understand what you’re studying. But whatever it is, Dad will work for it. Don’t worry.”
I cried quietly, clutching that note like it was a promise.
