He doesn’t know he’s my hero; he probably doesn’t even know how significant he is in my life. It’s ironic because, in fact, my life would be nothing without him.

My father is a man of simplicity, just as I am. I admire him for his patience and intelligence. My father possesses every good quality in the world. In my eyes, he’s a hero, but he doesn’t know it.

The impression he has of me is one who is annoyed. As he speaks, my body language tells him I need him to be quiet and leave me alone. However, every word he says has deep meaning to me.

His lectures, which he thinks I don’t listen to, have an impact on whatever aspect of my life he’s talking about. His countless attempts to begin a conversation with me are what I live for. This is for the father who always was, and always will be, my hero. And he doesn’t even know it.