The Day I Called My Father “Stranger” — And Meant It

I. The Forgotten Good Mornings

When I was a kid, my father used to wake me with gentle knocks on my bedroom door and a soft, “Good morning, champ.” I hated mornings — still do — but something about those words made getting up easier. I would bury my head deeper into the pillow, grumble in protest, but I secretly looked forward to hearing him say it again the next day.

Then one day, the knocks stopped.

I don’t remember exactly when. It wasn’t loud or dramatic, like in the movies. There wasn’t a big fight or some emotional explosion. Just… silence. Slowly, like sand slipping through fingers, our connection faded. He didn’t stop loving me — I don’t believe that for a second. He just stopped showing it in the ways I had grown used to. Or maybe I stopped noticing.

Looking back, I wish I had asked him why.

II. The Things We Never Say

I was a teenager when our conversations began to shrink into single-word answers. “Fine.” “Yeah.” “Okay.” “Sure.” Every time I’d walk into the living room and see him there — reading the newspaper, scrolling through his phone, sipping tea — I’d think about starting a conversation. Asking him how his day was. Telling him about mine.

But something always stopped me. Maybe pride. Maybe fear. Maybe I convinced myself it didn’t matter.

He, too, never asked.

Even during big moments — when I graduated, when I landed my first internship, when I fell in love and then fell apart — we stood on opposite shores, watching each other drift further and further away.

Sometimes I would catch him looking at me. Not with anger. Not with disappointment. But with something heavier: regret. And I’d quickly look away, pretending I didn’t notice.

III. The Stranger in My House

A year ago, I brought a friend home. We were working on a project, and my dad happened to be in the kitchen. I introduced them casually, distracted by my phone:

“This is Mr. Khan, my—”

I stopped myself.

I had almost forgotten to say the word “Dad.”

He laughed, a polite chuckle, and shook my friend’s hand. I laughed too, awkwardly, brushing it off. But the damage was done. That night, while lying in bed, I kept replaying the moment in my head. How could I forget to call my father… my father? What does that say about us? About me?

The truth is, he didn’t feel like “Dad” anymore. He felt like someone I once knew well — someone who knew me, too — but now, we were strangers in the same home.

IV. The Quiet Grief

It’s strange, mourning someone who’s still alive. I grieved the loss of a relationship we never had a chance to fix. I grieved all the things I never said — “I love you,” “I miss you,” “Thank you.” And I grieved the man I remembered from childhood — the one who taught me how to ride a bike, who cheered the loudest at my school play, who once ran through a thunderstorm to bring me my forgotten lunchbox.

Where did that man go? Or maybe the better question is: where did I go?

Because as much as I want to blame time, or adulthood, or even him — I played a part in this too. I let the silence grow. I let the distance stretch. I avoided the hard conversations, the awkward hugs, the vulnerable truths.

And maybe he did too.

V. What Silence Taught Me

Pain is a teacher, they say. And here’s what it taught me:

Love is not always loud. But when it goes quiet, you must fight to hear it again.

Family isn’t a guarantee. It’s something you rebuild, over and over.

Silence is easier than confrontation — but it’s also the fastest path to losing someone you love.

I realized that emotional distance doesn't always come with shouting matches or slammed doors. Sometimes it shows up in the way you stop asking how someone slept. The way you walk past each other without a glance. The way you forget the sound of their laughter.

VI. The Beginning of “Us” Again

Two weeks ago, I sat down with my father. No occasion. No script. Just a quiet evening and a heart full of things I should’ve said years ago.

“I miss us, Dad,” I said.

He didn’t reply immediately. But he looked up, put his phone down, and reached out his hand. I took it.

Sometimes, healing doesn’t come with dramatic monologues or long letters. Sometimes, it starts with a held hand — and the courage to speak again.

VII. If You're Still Reading...

Call them.

Whoever they are.

The parent you haven’t spoken to in years. The sibling who drifted away. The friend you lost touch with because life got “too busy.”

Don’t wait for a reason. Be the reason.

Because love, like fire, needs tending — or it turns to ash.