Brian RumaoFebruary 6, 2026
You live through the pain of letting go of a home to build one elsewhere. That is the immigrant story.
Ocean Vuong
The year is 1983, and in the villages of India two hours outside Mumbai, my parents (who were just married) are waving goodbye to family and friends to begin a new life in the US. They came to a new country with terrible English, but worked their way through. My father starting in fast food at Burger King and ultimately retiring at Chrysler after 25 years, and my mother working 30 years at the city hospital as a housekeeper. They did their best with what they had, scrapping together multiple forms of employment, various apartments and eventually houses, and raising two boys in pursuit of the American dream in suburban Michigan.
Fast forward to less than two years ago, when after 42 years in Michigan, they sold their home of three decades, and moved to Southern California. Again saying goodbye to family and friends, this time to join me here and help take care of their grandkids.
And today, on their wedding anniversary, I reflect on their lifetimes with a sense of appreciation. For their sacrifice in starting a new life from India to Michigan, to raising my brother and me with solid values and work ethic, to starting another life here in California while in their 60s. It’s not easy, and it’s never been. But they wouldn’t choose it any other way. For that, I’ll always be grateful, and privileged to have them as my parents, and grandparents for my kids.