By Juliana Marfa
Editors: Jessica Yi and Alloe Mak

When my parents stopped hugging me, I thought they stopped loving me.

I forget how old I was, probably seven or eight. I think I fell and hurt myself, but I don’t remember where we were or what they said. To be honest, I don’t remember what exactly happened or which parent it was. All I remember is wanting a hug as a form of consolation, warning to be held and told everything would be okay—to have my wounds kissed and heart warmed because that was the only thing that would truly heal them.
I remember leaning into my parent’s chest expecting comfort to be wrapped around me and for my small body to melt into them. But nothing came. Their hands remained on my upper arm, gripped and forceful, and I stayed tense, chest convulsing.

What took me a while to learn was that my parents show love in a different way; their love is unconventional.

They think mine is too.

We are similar in that way.

My father shows me love when he picks apart salted fish on Saturday mornings. He gathers meat from thin, delicate bones, and throws it onto my bed of rice, finishing the plate off with soy sauce and tomatoes that he prepares. My father does not understand why I take so long to get ready in the morning or why I romanticize the snow that falls outside when I’m with the person I love, because nothing about his adolescence was romantic. When I finish studying during the odd hours of the night and it seems like the whole house is dark, I go and get a glass of water. I walk into the living room and find my father still awake. He replies to my “Goodnight” with a “Love you,” and I leave not knowing how to tell him the comfort in still having someone to say goodnight to.

My mother shows me love when she comes into my room with a small bowl of cut-up fruit when my head is hot from studying. My mom gets out of bed when I do, so that breakfast is in front of my place at the table by the time I’ve finished my makeup. I dread when she does this because I don’t know how to say thank you. My mother’s way of holding my hand is keeping me company and saying “I’m here.” It was when she learned to be comfortable with saying “So proud of you” that gave me hope that she would understand my way of loving too. I hope one day I can thank her for feeding me rest and motivation and let her know that I savour the effort and exhaustion that she puts into each meal.

When my parents stopped hugging me, physical touch became my love language.

But I understand now that they never stopped loving me.

Their love is shown through gesture, through learning, and through sacrifice.
Though it is unconventional,
I wouldn’t want it any other way.