The Day My Dad Stopped Saying “I Love You”

I remember the last time my dad said, “I love you.” I was ten years old, holding a trophy from the school spelling bee. I wasn’t even that good at spelling—I just got lucky with the words that day. He hugged me tight in front of everyone, whispered it in my ear, and kissed the top of my head.

It felt normal then. Like a routine. A punctuation mark at the end of a good day.

But I didn’t realize until years later that it would be the last time I’d ever hear those three words from him.

At first, I didn’t notice the silence. It started subtly. He stopped tucking me in at night. He got busier at work. His hugs turned into handshakes, then pats on the back, then just nods from across the room. Maybe I brushed it off because I didn’t want to believe anything had changed.

He was still there, physically. Sitting at the dinner table. Driving me to school. Asking if I’d finished my homework. But emotionally, something shifted.

At thirteen, I asked him if he was proud of me when I got accepted into an honors program. He replied with, “Good job. Keep it up.”

No smile. No hug. Definitely no “I love you.”

I told myself it didn’t matter. I mean, dads are different, right? They’re not always as expressive. They show love in other ways—by fixing things, by working hard, by showing up. That’s what people say. That’s what my mom said when I asked her why he didn’t say it anymore.

“He loves you, sweetheart,” she told me, brushing my hair behind my ear. “He’s just not the type to say it all the time.”

But he was that type—once.

Years passed. I became an expert at hiding how much I missed those three simple words. I stopped saying them first because I hated hearing nothing back. I let the silence harden me a little, thinking maybe that was just part of growing up.

But it wasn’t until I was 21, visiting home from college for winter break, that I finally confronted the silence.

We were sitting in the garage, of all places. It was one of those cold, quiet nights when the stars look like they’re trying to say something. I was helping him organize some old tools when I found an old photo of us from when I was about five. I was wearing his baseball cap, and he was kneeling next to me, grinning wide. On the back, in his handwriting, it said:

“My world.”

I stared at the words for a long time. My throat tightened.

“Dad,” I said, not looking at him. “Why don’t you tell me you love me anymore?”

The silence that followed felt like a chasm. He didn’t look up from the toolbox he was sorting through.

“It’s not that I don’t,” he said eventually, almost in a whisper. “I just… don’t know how to anymore.”

I turned to him, blinking. “You used to.”

He finally looked at me, and in that moment, he looked older than I’d ever seen him. His eyes were tired, not just from age, but from holding something in for too long.

“I grew up in a house where no one said it,” he said slowly. “My dad never told me he loved me. Not once. When you were born, I promised myself I’d be different. And I was—for a while. But life gets heavy. I didn’t realize I was slipping back into old habits.”

He paused. “I thought showing up was enough. I didn’t think the words still mattered.”

I didn’t say anything. Not because I was angry—because I wasn’t. I was just… stunned.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice cracking. “I never stopped loving you. Not for a second.”

The truth is, I’d been carrying around a question my whole life: Was I still loved? And here it was—answered not in the way I’d hoped, but in a way that felt honest.

We didn’t hug right away. He didn’t start saying “I love you” every day after that. But something shifted.

A few weeks later, he sent me a text after I left to go back to school:

“Drive safe. Proud of you. I love you.”

That was all. But it meant everything.

And even now, years later, he doesn’t say it all the time—but I don’t need him to. I understand now that love isn’t always loud. It isn’t always wrapped in obvious words or grand gestures. Sometimes, it’s quiet. Sometimes, it’s a toolbox half-organized just so you can spend time together. Sometimes, it’s unspoken—but real.

Moral of the Story:

Love comes in many forms, and sometimes the people who love us the most struggle to express it. If someone in your life has gone silent, it doesn’t always mean their love has faded—it may just mean they’ve forgotten how to show it. Ask, listen, and leave room for grace. Because love isn’t only in the words—it’s in the effort, the presence, and the choice to grow.

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Thank you for reading...

Regards: Fazal Hadi