Three Generations of Fathers

My three-year-old granddaughter held onto a small ball with all the strength she had, determined not to let it go. She tucked herself into the corner of the sofa, curling up like a tiny turtle with her back rounded and her head buried between her knees. Her six-year-old brother tried several times to take the ball back by force, but eventually gave up in the face of her stubborn resistance and quietly walked into the next room.

When the room fell silent, she slowly lifted her head. Meeting my eyes, she flashed a triumphant smile. “Grandpa, I won.” Her whisper was small, but in her little world, it was a grand victory.

Ever since our son, now living back East, started a family, my wife and I travel twice a year—once in summer and once in winter—to spend a month with them. My wife, especially, waits eagerly for those visits. She wants to help our son and daughter-in-law, and she cherishes the chance to care for the grandchildren.

Jean Piaget, the Swiss biologist and psychologist who dedicated his life to studying children’s cognitive development, carefully observed his own three children for years and recorded every detail with his wife. For him, life and research were inseparable—observe, record, analyze. But the questions I hold while staying at my son’s home are far simpler and more personal.
What kind of father is my son?

As a first-generation immigrant who grew up in Korea and raised my son in America, I was a “Korean-style father” learning to live in a new land. My son, born and raised here as a second-generation American, now raises his children—our third generation. Parenting shifts with time. The ways we love and the ways we take responsibility are reshaped by each era, each home, and each heart.

My son always loved children. But for many years after marriage, no news came. Then, as if by grace, twins arrived. Joy came mixed with worry; my daughter-in-law struggled through a difficult pregnancy and ultimately had to deliver at seven months due to early complications. The twins, born prematurely, required meticulous care and deep patience.

Watching my son during those early days, I learned something profound:
A second-generation father carries more patience and a deeper sense of responsibility than I once did. No matter how tired he was, he played with the children, read them books, bathed them, and sang lullabies while strumming his guitar.

When the twins turned three, another unexpected blessing arrived—a third child. This pregnancy and birth were smoother, but parenting is never without its surprises. The youngest sometimes cries for no clear reason and becomes noticeably anxious on nights when his father travels.

Now the twins are six, and the youngest is three. The house is alive with their laughter and energy. Evenings are filled with dancing, tiny fingers pressing piano keys, and the youngest copying everything his older siblings do. Time has moved quickly; the children have grown in ways that both surprise and comfort us.

Yesterday, the older daughter stayed home with a cold. When her brother returned from school, he told her, “I looked for you in the cafeteria today,” and wrapped her gently in a hug. That simple moment stirred something deep within me. And I thought to myself, Our son and daughter-in-law are raising them well.

As a first-generation immigrant father, I learned to open my heart more than my own father once did, learning democratic family values and a gentler way of raising a child. And now my son—this second-generation father—devotes even more time and tenderness to his children.

Across three generations, the meaning of ‘father’ has quietly evolved.

A little softer,
a little deeper,
a little warmer.

And now I know:

Though none of us were perfect,
the fathers in our family have become better—
steadily, patiently, one generation at a time.
Recognizing that simple truth,
I find my own life has been meaningful enough.