Good Men Don’t Cry

Good Men Don't Cry

By [Abdul hadi]

My father never cried.

Not when his own father died.

Not when Mom packed her bags and left for good.

Not even when he fractured his wrist so bad the bone nearly tore through the skin, trying to fix a broken roof in the rain.

He just grit his teeth, wrapped it in an old T-shirt, and muttered, "It’ll heal."

That was his answer for everything.

He wasn't a monster—not in the way people expect when you say, “my father never hugged me.” He didn’t raise his voice, didn’t raise his hand. He showed up to work every day, paid the bills, kept the truck running, fixed the plumbing himself. By most accounts, he was a good man.

But he built walls so high no one ever climbed them. He was a fortress of silence.

He taught me things—practical things.

How to check an engine, how to use a drill, how to win a fight without getting arrested.

But he never taught me how to say sorry.

Or how to sit with someone else's pain.

Or how to let anyone see you hurting without thinking you’d lost.

The first time I saw him cry, I was five.

He was alone in the kitchen, staring out the window. I had woken up from a bad dream and tiptoed in, dragging my stuffed bear by one arm. His back was turned, his shoulders shaking slightly. I thought he was cold.

I reached up and touched his leg.

He spun around so fast I dropped my bear.

His eyes were red. He didn’t say a word—just looked at me like I’d caught him stealing something.

Then, with a low voice that felt more like a warning than comfort, he said,

“Go back to bed. Grown men don’t cry.”

I never forgot that.

So I learned. I toughened up.

I swallowed emotions like aspirin and moved on.

When I got teased at school, I took it.

When Mom didn’t show up for my birthday that one year, I said it was fine.

When my first girlfriend cheated on me, I punched a wall and told my friends I never loved her anyway.

I kept my chin up and my heart closed.

Years passed. I became a father myself.

When my son cried, I found myself freezing. Not because I didn’t want to comfort him—because I didn’t know how.

No one had ever comforted me, not really.

I would kneel, try to say something, but the words felt clumsy in my mouth. I’d pat his back, clear my throat, and change the subject.

And each time, I saw a little bit of confusion in his eyes. A little distance.

The same look I used to give him.

My father died five years ago. A stroke took him before I ever got the chance to say things I didn’t know I needed to say.

At the funeral, they called him a rock. A man of steel. A provider. A man who never wavered.

I nodded through all the speeches, shook hands with people I hadn’t seen since high school, and stayed dry-eyed the entire time.

But afterward, I went back to his house—our old house—and sat in the garage.

The same garage where he taught me to sand down wood and clean tools with oil rags.

The same place where he once fixed my bike without ever admitting he saw me cry over it being broken.

I sat there for hours.

The silence was the loudest I’d ever heard.

Then I saw it.

Tucked behind the top drawer of his workbench—an old envelope. No address. Just my name.

Inside: a yellowed note, written in clumsy, all-capital letters:

“Son, I was never good at talking. Never good at feeling things out loud. But I saw you. I loved you. I was just scared to show it. You did better than me. Keep doing better.”

I didn’t even feel the tears start. They just came.

For the first time in years, I cried.

Not from weakness. But from truth.

I cried because I missed him.

Because I had needed that letter twenty years earlier.

Because he tried—but too late.

That night, my son came into the garage and saw me sitting there, tears on my cheeks, the note in my lap.

He didn’t laugh. Didn’t look scared.

He just came closer and said,

“It’s okay, Dad. Good men cry too.”

I hugged him—really hugged him.

Not a pat. Not a tap.

But the kind of hug that says, “I won’t let this hurt keep going.”

And I whispered,

“I know, son. I know.”

Since then, I’ve been learning what my father couldn’t teach me.

How to listen.

How to comfort.

How to let myself feel.

Because I want my son to grow up knowing that strength isn’t the absence of tears—

It’s knowing when to let them fall.