The year I turned twenty, my mother and I went to a department store to buy my first pair of dress shoes. Wanting her daughter’s first pair to be something special, she carefully examined one pair after another, choosing with great care. Even sneakers or flats can fit differently depending on their design, and since it was my first time buying dress shoes, finding the right fit was not easy. The prettier pairs pinched my feet, and those with higher heels were difficult to walk in. In the end, we chose a comfortable pair with low heels.
That evening, when my father came home from work, I proudly showed him the new shoes. When he said I had truly become an adult, I felt pleased and put them on for him to see. But unlike how they had felt at the store, the shoes were loose. I had tried them on barefoot at the store, but once I put on stockings, they felt too big. Realizing we would have to go back and exchange them, I couldn’t help but complain.
As I stood there grumbling, my eyes fell on my father’s shoes by the front door. They were old and worn, as though he had been wearing them for at least ten years. The moment I saw them, my complaints vanished, replaced by a quiet sense of guilt. After all, the one who truly needed a new pair of shoes was my father.
When I suggested buying him a new pair, he told me to get shoes for my older sister instead. He said he didn’t need anything for himself. My father worked from early morning until late at night, always striving to give his children the best. I had been too immature to fully understand his sacrifices, yet he smiled and praised me, saying I had grown up. All I could feel was a quiet sense of regret in my heart. It seems I still have a long way to go before I can truly call myself an adult.