As a family of six, everyone had a seat at the dinner table. My three older sisters filled the right side, while my parents and I sat on the left. I always took the end seat, and to my left, my Bố  (dad). He was my left-hand man — the one who scooped rice from the cooker into everyone’s bowls, who fed me bits of history between bites, and who relished in teaching me about whatever he had just learned: world affairs, Vietnamese idioms, or stock market patterns. Over time, his

This month we celebrated the three year death anniversary of our father, Bố. Vietnamese rituals have offered a therapeutic effect for us...