Conversations with My Father — Part 1: The Silence Between Us
I stood by the window, my small hands pressed against the glass, watching my mother walk up the hill. With every step she took, my heart pounded harder. She didn’t look back. I watched until she disappeared over the other side, swallowed by the horizon. The lump in my throat tightened, and the tears I had been holding back spilled over. I was convinced that I might never see her again.
That morning had been brutal. My parents had been at war again. Their latest fallout, loud and violent, had left our home fractured. Doors slammed, voices rose, and accusations flew. And now, I was being sent away for the summer. My mother begged my father to let me stay. She didn’t trust him. She feared he would find a way to get rid of her in my absence. I didn’t understand the full weight of her words, but I knew enough to be terrified.
But my father was insistent. The flights were booked, the arrangements had been made, and I was going, whether I liked it or not. I cried as my mother left the house that morning. And now, standing at the window, I felt utterly alone. At that moment, I hated my father. He was cold. He was unyielding. He was selfish. How could he do this to her? How could he do this to me?
I had no way of knowing that I was too young to understand.
At that age, I saw only his actions, not the burdens he carried. I judged him without knowing what it meant to be a husband, a father, or a provider. My mother’s pain became my pain, and in my childish mind, my father was the villain. I was too blinded by my love for her to consider the weight of his sacrifices and the responsibilities he bore.
Years later, I see him through a different lens as a husband and father. I have stood in the shoes he once wore. I have had to make difficult choices. I had to be strong when everything was falling apart. And I have realised that the man I resented was simply a man doing his best in a broken world.
But let me be clear — I do not condone the violence, whether verbal or physical. No child should grow up in a home where anger turns into weapons and where love is shadowed by fear. Understanding my father does not mean excusing his actions. Some wounds take a lifetime to heal, and some lessons come at too great a cost. I can hold both truths at once — I can respect the burdens he carried and still recognise the harm that was done.
But back then, I didn’t know that. I only saw the silence between us, the distance that grew wider with every argument, every unspoken word, every misunderstanding that went unresolved. I never had the chance to make amends before dementia stole his mind, and time stole his life.
Now, I carry the weight of what was left unsaid. Questions play on an unrelenting loop. What were you thinking when my mother left? Did you ever second-guess any of your choices? Did you ever feel alone even when we were all in the same house?
Back then, I never had the words. And today, I will never have the answers.
But maybe understanding doesn’t need them. Maybe the past only asks to be seen for what it was — to be held, even without resolution.
Thanks for reading!
2025. All rights reserved.
