Sundays are days of rest, but they’re also the days that I spend with my grandparents. I eat my grandma’s pho with them and then go with my grandpa to play badminton with him and his friends. I enjoy every single second I spend with them,

I enjoy hearing about their stories about what their life was like. Much like many others who immigrated from Vietnam, they were boat people. Meaning that they had to eat the spoiled taros that they kept in sacks, and the moldy rice from the jars. With nothing besides the clothes on their backs and the little money they had in their pockets, they suffered through thick and thin, just to make it to America.

They suffered for the sake of our future, my future. So that I wouldn’t have to go through the same experience as them. I love them to death, that’s why they deserve, at the very least, a day of rest.