Born From a Man Who Never Hugged Me

Born From a Man Who Never Hugged Me

By [Abdul Hadi]

My father never hugged me.

Not once—not after scraped knees, not on birthdays, not when I left for college.

The first time I realized this wasn’t normal was in second grade, when I saw Ryan’s dad scoop him up after school, spinning him in the air like a movie moment.

My dad waited in the truck.

The engine was already running.

He wasn’t cruel, at least not in the ways people recognize.

He showed up. Paid bills. Fixed leaks. Sharpened the mower blades every spring.

But when I cried, he stiffened.

When I reached out, he turned inward.

When I asked questions, he answered with one-word replies.

I grew up craving something I couldn’t name.

Not love—I know now that he loved me.

But I wanted to feel it.

And I never did.

When I was ten, I tried to hug him once—on Father’s Day. I bought a card with my saved-up lunch money, a goofy one with a tie-wearing bear. He took it, nodded, and said, “Thanks.”

Then I stepped forward, arms out.

He stepped back.

“Alright now,” he said, half-laughing, half-awkward.

“Don’t be soft.”

So I stopped trying.

By the time I hit high school, we had turned into two people sharing a space, like reluctant roommates.

We didn’t fight. We didn’t bond.

He taught me how to change a tire, but not how to process grief.

He taught me how to fix a sink, but not how to handle heartbreak.

Everything emotional was off-limits.

Unnecessary. Unmanly.

Unspoken.

The week I left for college, he helped load my bags into the trunk. My mom was already crying, squeezing my shoulders like she was sending me to war.

My dad just closed the car door and said,

“Be good. Don’t waste it.”

He meant the opportunity. I knew that.

But I would’ve traded the whole scholarship for one long, meaningful hug.

He turned back to the house before I could even wave.

I carried his absence like armor. It made me tough. Focused. Efficient.

But when I fell in love for the first time, I didn’t know how to hold someone without flinching.

When she cried, I tried to solve her instead of sit with her pain.

She said once, “You don’t need to fix everything. Just feel it with me.”

I didn’t know how.

I started therapy after that breakup. My therapist asked about my childhood, and I gave her the usual answers:

“Nothing terrible happened.”

“He worked hard.”

“He was just quiet.”

Then she asked, “Do you remember the last time he hugged you?”

And I just… stared at the floor.

Years later, I had a son of my own.

Noah.

The first time I held him in my arms, something in me cracked wide open—like a part of me that had been frozen for decades suddenly thawed.

I held him and sobbed—loud, messy sobs that felt like they belonged to every child in me that had ever been ignored.

I whispered to him, “I’ll never let you wonder if you’re loved.”

And I meant it.

Every morning, I kiss his forehead.

Every night, I tell him I’m proud.

When he cries, I hold him close until the fear melts away.

He knows softness.

He knows comfort.

He knows me.

Not just the provider. Not just the presence.

He knows my heart—because I finally let myself have one.

Last month, my father had a minor stroke. He’s recovering slowly—slurred speech, weaker grip, long silences that now feel more like incapacity than choice.

I visited him in the rehab center.

We sat in the bland, beige room, surrounded by ticking clocks and folded newspapers.

He tried to speak. The words came out broken.

But this time, I didn’t wait for him to explain.

I reached across the table and took his hand.

His eyes watered. Just slightly. Just enough.

And for the first time, he didn’t pull away.

We sat there, hand in hand, not speaking—not because we couldn’t, but because it wasn’t necessary anymore.

That moment—quiet, fragile—was our first real embrace.

I am a man born from a man who never hugged me.

But I am not him.

I have loved harder because of his distance.

I have hugged longer because I was denied.

And I’ve learned that real strength isn’t in holding it all in—

It’s in the courage to reach out anyway.

Even if your hands are shaking.