Taller Buildings, Smaller Families

On a busy weekend afternoon, I stood before a newly constructed high-rise building. Its gleaming glass windows reflected the streetlights, each apartment sealed off in its own private world. Suddenly, I remembered my grandmother’s old single-story house. There was a tiny mezzanine where ten grandchildren would squeeze together, kicking one another playfully, yet laughing happily into the night.

Back then, our homes were cramped, but our families were large and full of life. Every Tet holiday, relatives would flood the courtyard. My grandmother would be bustling about cooking, while laughter echoed through the entire neighborhood. Today, however, our five-story house holds only four people. Each has their own room, and the living space is vast. Yet, when distant relatives ask to stay for a few days, I hear my mother sigh: "Let them sleep in the back room, but they must clean up afterwards. It is such a bother."

I looked up at the rooftop, where my father often stands alone smoking. He speaks little, and sometimes I see him gazing into the distance with a pensive look. One day, I asked him, "Father, why don’t you go down and talk with Mother?" His voice was dry as he replied, "I have nothing to say. Just focus on your studies." Though his tone was harsh, I knew he was sad. In the old house, we gathered around the dinner table, Father telling stories from the past while Mother smiled gently. Now, everyone eats at different times, and sometimes we do not see each other for an entire week. I realized that this massive building cannot hold our small family, because affection had quietly faded away long ago.

One evening, I invited my younger sister to the rooftop to watch the stars. She shook her head, saying, "I am busy watching movies on my phone." I stood there alone, feeling the cold wind blow. I remembered how my grandmother used to tell fairy tales under the moonlight. We children would lie on our backs, counting the stars. The sky still holds those stars today, but no one looks up anymore.

Then, one day, I heard that the eldest patriarch of our clan had passed away in our hometown. The whole extended family was supposed to gather, but only a few elders came; the rest were too busy with work. I looked at the spacious ancestral hall, where the patriarch once sat with dignity, deciding matters big and small. Now, it felt empty and cold. I asked my uncle, "Why are so few people coming home these days?" He sighed, his eyes looking far away. "Everyone is busy. The descendants all live in the city now, and no one wants to return to the countryside. The bond among relatives used to be deep, but now..."

I understood the paradox of our time. Houses have grown larger, but families have become smaller. People have more money, but less closeness. This contradiction exists right before our eyes, yet few realize it until it is too late.

The Meaning of the Story

This story reminds us that as society develops and material comforts increase, family love and human connection are easily forgotten. Do not let tall buildings obscure the precious spiritual values that truly matter.

Compiled from the dharma talk by Venerable Thich Chan Quang