The Letter I Couldn't Read: A Father's Regret

I remember the day the letter came like it happened only yesterday.

It was a Thursday afternoon, hot and dry, and I had just returned from the farm, my clothes soaked in sweat and dust. My legs were heavy, my hands blistered, but I wore the same tired smile I always brought home to my children.

My youngest, Ife, ran out to meet me with a big grin, waving an envelope in her small hand.

“Papa! They brought a letter from the big school!”

She was only seven, but already brighter than I ever was. Her eyes sparkled with excitement.

I wiped my forehead and took the envelope from her hands. It was thick, stamped with an official seal from the Federal Ministry of Education. The paper looked important. Sacred, even.

“Where’s your brother?” I asked.

“In the house. He’s been pacing since the postman left.”

I entered our small two-room home and found my son, Daniel, sitting at the edge of the bed. He stood up the moment he saw me, nervously rubbing his palms together.

“Papa… the man said it’s the scholarship letter,” he said, his voice trembling.

My heart pounded. Daniel had worked so hard for this. He studied by candlelight when the power failed, borrowed textbooks from neighbors, walked five kilometers to school and back each day just to save our little transport money.

I looked at the letter in my hands… but the words on the paper made no sense to me.

They danced in front of my eyes like ants on a hot floor.

The letters were strange symbols—just ink and confusion. I blinked once. Twice. My fingers trembled as I turned the paper around, as if flipping it would suddenly make the words come alive.

“Papa?” Daniel asked, his voice cracking.

I looked up at him.

I couldn’t tell my son I couldn’t read it. Not after all his hard work. Not after all I had told him about how proud I was, how far we had come.

“Let’s wait for Mama,” I said quickly, stuffing the letter in my pocket. “She can help.”

But Mama wouldn’t be home until night, and I knew she couldn’t read either.

She dropped out of school at age 12, when her father forced her into marriage. I, on the other hand, never even had the chance to start. I was the first son of a farmer. By six, I was already working in the fields. By ten, I had a machete in my hand instead of a pencil. The only letters I ever knew were the shapes on fertilizer bags.

So I did what I had always done when life backed me into a corner—I avoided it.

That night, I pretended to forget about the letter. I acted tired, I went to bed early. But Daniel couldn’t sleep. I saw the way he kept glancing at me in the dark, hoping I’d say something.

The next morning, he left early for school. The letter was still with me.

I decided to go to the village center and find someone to read it. I didn’t care if I had to beg. So I walked, faster than I usually did, with my hat pulled low to cover my shame.

When I reached the marketplace, I approached Mr. Ade, the retired teacher who now sold kerosene.

“Baba Daniel!” he greeted. “How’s the farm?”

“I’m fine, sir. Please… I need your help.”

I handed him the letter with shaky hands. He read it silently for a while, then looked up at me, eyes wide.

“This… this is from the government,” he said slowly. “Your son has been awarded a full scholarship. He’s been accepted into the Federal Science and Technical College. All his fees will be paid.”

I stood there, frozen.

“He… he got it?”

“Yes! And they said he must respond within five days to confirm acceptance. Today is the fourth day.”

Suddenly, my knees went weak. I gripped the edge of the stall to steady myself.

I hadn’t just failed to read the letter—I had almost cost my son the opportunity of a lifetime.

“Can you help me write the reply?” I whispered, my voice barely a breath.

“Of course. But you need to hurry.”

That night, I handed the letter to Daniel with tears in my eyes.

He read it in silence. Then looked at me.

“You knew yesterday, didn’t you?” he asked.

“I didn’t,” I confessed. “Because I couldn’t read it. I’ve… never been able to.”

His face softened.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

I struggled for words. “Because I’m your father. I’m supposed to lead you. Protect you. Not be the reason you miss out on your dreams.”

Daniel walked up to me and did something I didn’t expect.

He hugged me.

Tight.

“Papa… you’ve always led me. Just not with books. But now I’ll lead us with them.”

Weeks passed. Daniel moved into the boarding school. He was excited, nervous, but full of purpose. He called every weekend to share new things he had learned—chemistry experiments, technical drawing, physics.

And each time, I felt pride and pain in equal measure.

Then one Sunday, he said something I’ll never forget.

“Papa,” he said, “I want to teach you.”

“Teach me what?”

“How to read.”

I laughed. “At my age? My brain is filled with farm soil and yams.”

“No,” he said seriously. “It’s never too late. You always said education is power. So let’s share the power.”

So we began.

Every week, Daniel sent me handwritten notes with simple lessons. The alphabet. Then small words. Mama helped me practice at night. Ife joined in too. Soon, we were reading together as a family.

One day, I received another letter—this time from the local council asking for farmers to apply for free training in modern equipment.

And for the first time in my life… I read the letter myself.

I applied.

And I was accepted.

It’s been four years now.

Daniel is in his final year of university, studying engineering. Ife is top of her class. And me? I can read and write enough to run my farm more efficiently than ever.

But most importantly, I no longer carry the shame of that unread letter.

Instead, I carry its lesson:

That education isn’t just about getting a certificate. It’s about dignity. Power. Choice.

And it’s never, ever too late.

Even for a father who once couldn’t read his own son’s future.