“The Letter I Never Sent My Father”

Dear Dad,

It’s been five years since you left this world. The silence you left behind still speaks louder than anything you ever said. I’ve written you dozens of letters in my head, but I never sent a single one. I’m writing this now, not because I think you can read it, but because I need to. For me. For the parts of me that still carry your shadow.

I found the letter last night — the one I wrote you during that year we didn’t speak. It was tucked inside a book you gave me on my 18th birthday. I never finished the book. Maybe I couldn’t. Maybe it was just too heavy — not the book, but everything between us.

That year we stopped talking, I convinced myself I didn’t care. I told myself you were cold, distant, that I didn’t need your approval. But the truth is, I did care. A lot. More than I was willing to admit back then.

You weren’t an easy man to love. You held everything inside like a dam straining to never break. Your words were rare, your emotions even rarer. You showed love through sacrifice — working double shifts, fixing broken things, putting food on the table. But what I needed was something you didn’t know how to give: words, hugs, softness.

Still, there were moments — small, fleeting ones — where I saw a version of you that gave me hope.

Like when I scraped my knee riding my bike and you didn’t say a word, just carried me inside and cleaned the wound with a gentleness that didn’t match your hands. Or the night before my exams when you left a cup of tea by my door with a sticky note that just said, “Do your best.”

I held onto those moments like treasures, even though I pretended they meant nothing.

Then came the fight. The one we both remember but never spoke of again. It wasn’t about anything big — just the last straw of a thousand little miscommunications. I yelled. You went silent. I slammed a door. You never opened it.

That silence lasted months.

I remember walking past your room at night, wondering if you missed me. I never knocked. I waited for you to do it first. You didn’t. And so the gap grew wider.

The letter I wrote you that summer — I wish I had sent it. I poured my heart into it. I told you I was sorry. I told you I needed you. I told you I loved you even when I said I didn’t. But I never gave it to you. Pride? Fear? I don’t even know anymore.

Then you got sick. And suddenly time wasn’t something we could pretend we had. I sat beside you in the hospital, holding your hand when you were too weak to open your eyes. I whispered apologies, half-hoping you could hear me. I told you I forgave you — and I hoped you forgave me too.

The night you passed, I stayed up reading that old book. I got to page 87 before the tears blurred the words.

And now here I am — five years later — still carrying that letter, still wishing I had spoken sooner, hugged tighter, listened more, forgiven faster.

But Dad… I want you to know something now.

I finally understand you. The man who was raised to believe emotions were weakness. The man who bore the weight of responsibility so heavily he forgot how to just be. I understand why you couldn’t always be soft. Why you loved in ways that didn’t look like love to a child but were, in their own way, just as deep.

I forgive you. And I forgive myself too.

Sometimes I imagine you reading this. I like to think you'd just nod quietly, maybe say, “Good job, kid,” the way you used to when I fixed something on my own. And maybe that’s enough.

I don't need closure anymore. I just needed to let this out. I needed to finally send the letter.

So here it is.

I love you, Dad. I always did.

Even in silence.

—

With love,

Your child

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