The sun had just begun to rise, casting a warm glow across the curtains of Lala’s room. She stretched her arms and sat up, rubbing her eyes with curiosity. It was the weekend, and weekends always held a promise of adventure in her home. Little did she know, today would be a day filled with surprises and stories from the past.
Lala had always admired her dad’s calm, wise demeanor. He was a man who carried a quiet strength, someone who worked hard for the family but also laughed easily when they spent time together. Yet, like most children, she rarely thought of her father as a boy who once had dreams, toys, or treasures of his own. To her, Dad was Dad—serious, loving, and strong.
That morning, she heard noises coming from the attic. “What’s Dad doing up there?” she wondered. She tiptoed closer and saw a ladder propped up against the opening. Dust floated in the beam of light that shone down from the attic hatch. Her curiosity instantly sparked. Without hesitation, she climbed up after him.
“Dad?” she called softly.
From the dimly lit attic, his voice answered, “Morning, Lala! I’m cleaning up some old boxes. Want to help?”
Her eyes widened. She loved helping Dad, especially when it meant exploring hidden spaces. She crawled onto the wooden floorboards and wrinkled her nose at the faint musty smell. Cardboard boxes were stacked in every corner, each labeled with Dad’s neat handwriting: “Books,” “Winter Clothes,” “Kitchenware.” But one small, battered box tucked under a blanket caught her attention. Unlike the others, it wasn’t labeled at all.
“Dad, what’s in this one?” she asked, brushing away the dust.
Her father turned around, glanced at the box, and smiled knowingly. “Ah, you’ve found it. That’s… my childhood memorabilia.”
“Your what?” she tilted her head.
“My old treasures—things from when I was your age,” he explained, lifting the box carefully. “Would you like to see?”
Lala’s eyes sparkled with excitement. She nodded eagerly, and the two of them carried the box downstairs to the living room. Dad placed it gently on the carpet, and Lala sat cross-legged beside him, waiting for the big reveal. Slowly, he opened the lid.
Inside lay a collection of items, each one holding a story waiting to be told. On top sat a faded red toy car, the paint chipped from years of play. Lala picked it up carefully.
“Wow! Did you really play with this?” she asked in awe.
Dad chuckled. “Oh yes, that was my favorite toy when I was about six years old. I would race it across the floor and imagine I was a racecar driver. It may look old, but back then, it felt like the fastest car in the world.”
Lala rolled it gently on the floor, imagining little Dad doing the same. For the first time, she pictured her father not as the tall, strong man she knew, but as a boy filled with dreams and laughter.
Next, she pulled out a small leather-bound notebook. Its pages were yellowed, and the edges curled from time. On the cover, written in messy, boyish handwriting, was Dad’s name.
“What’s this?” she asked.
Dad’s eyes softened. “That’s my childhood diary. I wrote down my thoughts, my dreams, and sometimes even my worries. Want me to read one?”
Lala nodded, holding her breath. Her dad carefully flipped through the pages until he found one dated many years ago. He cleared his throat and read aloud: ‘Today I played football with my friends. I wasn’t the fastest, but I scored a goal. I felt so happy. One day, I want to play for the national team.’
Lala giggled. “Dad, you wanted to be a football player?”
He smiled sheepishly. “Yes, but life had other plans. Still, I kept that dream alive for many years.”
The diary made Lala realize something important: her dad had dreams, too—just like she did. She suddenly felt closer to him than ever before.
They continued exploring the box. Lala discovered a handful of marbles, shining with swirls of blue, green, and gold. Dad explained how he used to play marble games with his friends during recess, competing to win each other’s prized marbles. He even showed her how to flick them with her thumb, and together they played a short game on the living room rug, laughing when the marbles scattered in all directions.
Then, tucked beneath an old scarf, Lala found a bundle of folded letters tied with string. Her curiosity grew. “What are these, Dad?”
Her father’s cheeks turned pink as he untied the bundle. “These… are letters from my best friend when I was in middle school. We moved to different towns, so we wrote to each other to stay in touch.”
He opened one and read aloud a line about playing pranks on teachers and sneaking extra candy during breaks. Lala laughed until her stomach hurt. “Dad, you were naughty!”
“Sometimes,” he admitted with a grin. “But those letters remind me of the joy of friendship.”
Finally, at the very bottom of the box, Lala found a framed photograph. It showed a small boy standing barefoot in the yard, grinning ear to ear while holding the very same toy car she had seen earlier. His eyes were full of wonder and mischief—the same eyes she now saw in her father.
“That’s you, Dad!” she exclaimed, holding the photo tightly.
“Yes,” he said quietly, his voice filled with nostalgia. “That was me, a long time ago.”
Lala stared at the picture, then back at her dad. In that moment, she realized something beautiful: the man who cared for her, guided her, and protected her was once a child filled with dreams, laughter, and innocence—just like her.
“Dad,” she said softly, “thank you for showing me these. I didn’t know you had so many stories.”
Her father put an arm around her and kissed the top of her head. “I’m glad you wanted to see. These memories remind me of where I came from, and they help me understand who I am today. And one day, you’ll have your own box of treasures, too.”
Lala’s eyes lit up with excitement. “I want to start one now! I’ll put in my drawing book, my favorite bracelet, and maybe a photo of me and Baby Monkey. Then when I grow up, I can show my children, just like you showed me!”
Dad smiled proudly. “That’s a wonderful idea.”
The rest of the day was spent creating Lala’s own memorabilia box. She chose items carefully, each one representing a piece of her childhood: her first school medal, a seashell she had collected on a family trip, and even a silly note she had written to herself. Dad helped her label the box, and together they stored it safely.
That night, as Lala lay in bed, she thought about everything she had discovered. The past felt alive, not just a distant story but something tangible she could hold in her hands. She felt closer to her dad, not just as her protector but as someone who once laughed, played, and dreamed just like her.
Before drifting off to sleep, she whispered to herself, “I’ll treasure my memories, too.” And with a smile, she dreamed of the day her own children would be surprised to discover her box of childhood treasures—just as she had discovered her dad’s.
