When I was expecting my first child, I suddenly developed allergic rhinitis—something I had never experienced before. The symptoms grew worse after the births of my second and third children. Every spring, when pollen filled the air, sneezing and a runny nose were only the beginning. My eyes would turn red and bloodshot, and my eyelids swelled so badly that going outside felt impossible. And it wasn’t just in spring. In summer, even the breeze from a fan or air conditioner would trigger my symptoms. When the seasons changed and temperatures fluctuated sharply, the suffering returned.
I visited hospitals and traditional medicine clinics said to specialize in treating rhinitis, but nothing helped. My nose ran constantly, and I often had to plug it with tissues just to get through the day. Breathing itself became difficult, and caring for three young children in that condition gradually drained both my strength and my spirit.
Then one day, my father brought over an armful of dried magnolia buds.
“I heard magnolia buds are good for rhinitis. Try making tea with them.”
Clinging to even the faintest hope, I carefully brewed the magnolia buds into tea and drank it every day. Gradually, the relentless symptoms that had tormented me began to ease. When my father heard the news, he continued to bring me dried magnolia buds every spring.
After several years, my condition improved to the point where a single dose of medicine could calm the symptoms. I was finally able to go outside freely in the spring, just like everyone else.
“Dad, I don’t think you need to bring me magnolia buds anymore.”
“Are you sure you’ll be all right without them? Well then, I suppose I can finally take a break.”
Only then did I learn that every spring, before the magnolia blossoms opened, he had gone from mountain to mountain gathering the buds—searching for clean ones far from roads and car exhaust. All that time, I had simply assumed there were always dried magnolia buds at his house. Realizing what he had done for me, my eyes welled with tears.
My father became a widower at forty-five. After my mother passed away suddenly, he was left to raise three children on his own. How heavy his heart must have been. For years, I thought of him as stern and reserved. But looking back now, I see that he was expressing his love in his own quiet way—I simply failed to recognize it. Behind his stoic exterior was a deep and steady love, always there, quietly by our side. Before it is too late, I want to become a daughter who repays the love I have received.