The Last Letter of a Silent Night

The night had grown still. The room was dim, lit only by a weak bulb hanging in the corner. I sat on the bed with my phone in my hand, scrolling without purpose. My mind was heavy, and sleep felt far away. Suddenly, the screen lit up with a new message.

For a moment, I froze. Something inside me whispered, “This won’t be good.”

I opened the message slowly.

“Abu passed away today.”

Three simple words.

But they shattered something inside me.

My fingers stopped.

My breath felt trapped in my chest.

My heart dropped in a way I’d never felt before.

I read the line again, and my mind refused to accept it.

Today, he wasn’t just “Abu.”

Today, he was my father.

The man whose distance had carved so many wounds in me.

The man whose silence echoed through my childhood.

And now he was gone.

As I stared at the screen, memories I’d buried long ago started rising. His face. His rare laughter. His presence that was always somewhere between near and far. He had a strange way of being in the room without ever truly being there.

A part of me had always wondered if he ever cared enough. Maybe I wasn’t the kind of son he wanted. Maybe I was too quiet. Maybe too emotional. Or maybe he just didn’t know how to be the father I needed.

But today, none of that mattered.

Today, the truth was simple:

He was gone, and I felt it in a way that scared me.

I read the message again.

Then again.

The silence around me grew heavier.

A familiar voice echoed inside my head, almost like a memory of him speaking:

“If I were here, I’d ask—why didn’t he call instead of texting?”

It sounded exactly like him.

Sharp. Direct. A little harsh.

My brother must have struggled even to type those few words. He wasn’t close to Abu. They never fixed anything between them. So many things were left unsaid. So many wounds were left open.

But my story was different.

I had cried for him once.

Not today.

Years ago.

I had broken myself open trying to understand why he felt so far away. I had unpacked every emotion, peeled every layer, and let myself bleed until the pain became quiet.

Tonight, the tears came back.

Slow.

Then uncontrollable.

Then slow again.

The strange thing was, a part of me had always expected he would leave. Recently, I even had a feeling he might not be around much longer. He’d crossed an age milestone, and I found myself wondering how long he would live. I had never imagined him as an old man.

And I had wondered—

Would I feel relief?

Would I feel anything at all?

Would I miss him?

Now I had my answer.

I missed him.

Not the man he was.

But the father he could have been.

There was no relief.

Just a soft ache.

And a quiet forgiveness that surprised me.

As I cried, a strange thought hit me:

“Why am I even crying? He wasn’t there for me.”

The guilt hit hard.

I felt unworthy of my own grief.

I hadn’t seen him in years.

He had kept a distance I never understood.

But I wasn’t crying for the man he was.

I was crying for all the empty spaces he left behind.

The love that never came.

The conversations that never happened.

The hugs that never existed.

The father I wished he had been.

I cried for him too.

For his soul.

For whatever pain he carried that kept him distant.

For whatever he struggled with alone.

For whatever he hid so deeply that he couldn’t show love the way a father should.

I found myself whispering inside,

“I hope you’re at peace now. Wherever you are.

I hope you finally feel the love you didn’t know how to give.”

Somewhere between the tears and the silence, a quiet calm settled inside me.

The hurt was still there, but softer now.

The wound was still present, but no longer raw.

Just an old scar that would stay with me.

And somewhere in all of that, I realized something simple.

I had forgiven him.

Not because he deserved it.

But because I needed it.

Tonight, in the stillness of the room, I felt something shift.

Pain was still pain, but it was no longer sharp.

The emptiness was still there, but it no longer frightened me.

There was sadness, but there was also acceptance.

The story between us will always be incomplete.

But tonight… at least it feels quieter.