By Dr Rahim Said
Her birth was easy. No 12 hours of labour like her older brother. She simply arrived, almost politely, as if she understood that her parents had already been through enough drama two years earlier.
Her mother immediately counted fingers and toes. The memory of her brother’s club foot still lingered in the back of her mind. But there she was — perfect, complete, and already charming the room.
From that day on, her mother treated her like a doll. Dresses, ribbons, little shoes. All the things she could never do with a boy, who preferred toy trucks and ‘Play-Doh’.
But the real problem was not the dresses. The real problem was the father. Me!
Because from the moment she learned to look up with those big eyes and say, “Please, please, pretty please, Dad…” I discovered something dangerous. I could not say no.
My friends warned me. “Daughters do that to fathers,” they said knowingly, stirring their morning kopi. I nodded like a man who understood.
The truth was, I had no idea what they meant. Until I had a daughter.
Toys appeared even when money didn’t. Sports gear followed soon after. Then musical instruments. Each purchase was carefully disguised as “an investment in talent,” though her mother called it what it was—spoiling.
“Don’t spoil her,” she would scold. I would nod wisely, like a responsible parent. Then buy the thing anyway.
Kindergarten was easy. Teachers adored her. School was never a struggle. Through high school she flourished — basketball, tennis, jazz band, stage performances, leadership roles. Popular, confident, full of life.
Of course, there were the occasional teenage rebellions. They arrived dramatically and left quickly, like tropical thunderstorms.
But after high school she announced something that broke my heart. “I don’t want to go to college yet.”
Parents have many fears. That sentence ranks somewhere near the top. Instead, she said she wanted experience. She wanted to become a brand ambassador. Apparently, her friends thought she looked the part.
So she entered a television talent competition searching for Malaysia’s next “brand ambassador.” She didn’t win. But she came, runner-up.
You would think we had just won the Olympics!
My daughter was runner-up! I told everyone. The teh tarik gang heard the story every morning for weeks. In junior tennis, she had also ranked third nationally. Never mind she didn’t quite make the ATP path.
Details are overrated when a father is proud. Then, in late December, she appeared in the living room again. “Dad… I want to go to college.”
“Why the sudden change?”
“All my friends are already in college.”
Of course they were.
But it was December. Most universities start in the fall. Spring admissions are rare. And she had a very specific dream. New York.
“Just like you, Dad.”
Ah yes. The most dangerous phrase in the English language. We had two weeks.
Two weeks to find a college, submit essays, gather recommendations, prepare portfolios, and apply before the spring deadlines closed.
Her GPA was slightly short for some schools. But we tried anyway. Essays were written at midnight. Applications rushed out.
At one point, we nearly missed the submission because we forgot the processing fee.
Luckily, an old classmate of mine in New York ran to the admissions office with US$30 minutes before closing time.
A father must maintain international logistics networks. Then one day the email arrived.
A respectable private college outside New York accepted her for the Spring semester. Not Ivy League, but good enough — and with a tennis league where she could still compete.
“Dad! I got admitted!”
She jumped as she had just won Wimbledon.
Then reality arrived quietly. Fifty thousand US dollars per year. Four years. Close to a million ringgit.
“Please, Dad,” she said again.
Those words should come with government health warnings. My wife asked the practical question.
“Are you planning to sell the house?” For a moment, I actually considered it.
Because fathers have a strange weakness. We will walk miles, mortgage homes, borrow money we cannot repay, all to avoid disappointing a daughter.
Admission was only the first battle. Next came the scholarship race.
Thousands applied. She survived the first round. Then the top 500. Then the top 100. Interviews followed. Our home turned into a training academy.
Her mother bought an executive pantsuit. I coached interview strategy like a military drill instructor.
Walk confidently. Hand your CV properly. Shake hands firmly. Don’t turn your back awkwardly when leaving the room.
Even the bag she carried impressed the panellists. Soon, she was among the final five candidates invited to meet the CEO.
Three names would go to the chairman. Two would win the scholarship.
Those were long days. I paced the house like a man awaiting medical results. I even asked the neighbourhood surau to pray for her success.
A father becomes surprisingly religious when scholarships are involved.
Meanwhile, the college demanded proof of funding. My wife and I went to the bank and mortgaged the family home. It wasn’t enough for four years, but it was enough to show the first semester was covered.
Then we waited.
Anxiety is a word you only truly understand when your child’s future depends on an email. Finally, the news arrived.
She was going to New York. She was only seventeen.
We flew with her. The scholarship didn’t cover our travel, but no father sends his teenage daughter alone into New York City if he can help it.
Money was borrowed. Debts postponed. Logic temporarily suspended. Because love is rarely financially sensible.
When we landed at JFK airport, we rented a car, and as we drove through the Long Island Expressway, she rolled down the window and breathed in the freezing air like someone discovering a new planet.
“I love the smell of New York City,” she said. I laughed. And in that moment, I realised something. Fathers often worry whether they have done enough.
But sometimes all it takes is one sentence from the back seat of a car in a foreign city to know the answer. Yes. I think I made my daughter happy.
WE