What We Inherit in Silence

What We Inherit in Silence

By [Abdul Hadi]

Some inherit property.

Some inherit names.

Some inherit eye color, bone structure, or a favorite chair.

I inherited silence.

In my family, silence is our first language.

It blankets the dinner table.

It sits between the lines of every “I’m fine.”

It stretches across generations like a thread that never frays.

My grandfather spoke in nods and handshakes.

My father perfected the art of the half-sentence.

And me? I learned how to disappear in a room full of people.

When I was eleven, I asked my dad why we never talked about my grandmother—the one whose picture sat alone on the hallway shelf, in a dusty silver frame.

He looked at me, long and still. Then said only:

“She’s gone. That’s all you need to know.”

So I didn’t ask again.

Years passed, and silence became tradition.

We didn’t talk about emotions.

We didn’t ask where the bruises came from when my uncle stopped visiting.

We didn’t question why Dad sometimes sat in the garage for hours, engine off, beer untouched, staring straight ahead.

Silence was the rule, not the exception.

I thought this was normal.

Until I visited a friend’s house at thirteen and heard his dad say, “I’m proud of you.”

Out loud.

In front of people.

I froze, genuinely unsure if I’d just witnessed something private.

He looked at me and said,

“You alright, kid?”

I nodded. Because that’s what I was taught to do.

When my father died, the silence didn’t end.

It got louder.

The funeral was short. The eulogy vague.

“Hardworking man. Tough but loyal. Didn’t say much.”

They said it like it was a badge of honor.

I wanted to scream, “He didn’t say anything at all!”

But I just stood there, hands in pockets, jaw locked.

The only thing he left me was a sealed envelope labeled “For Ben.”

My name.

I didn’t open it for weeks.

Not because I didn’t care.

Because I was afraid.

Afraid it would say too much. Or worse—nothing at all.

When I finally opened it, my hands trembled. The paper inside was yellowed, folded twice, like it had been waiting a long time.

It read:

“Son, I never learned how to talk. My father didn’t either. We thought silence was strength. I think now it’s fear. I didn’t want to pass this down, but I think I did. I hope you forgive me. Be better than me. Speak.”

That letter broke me.

Not because it was poetic.

Because it was the only honest sentence he ever gave me.

I cried harder than I thought possible—not for what he said, but for all the things he never did.

Now, I try to live differently.

When I have kids someday, I want them to hear “I love you” until it becomes part of their breath.

I want them to ask questions and expect answers.

I want them to cry and not apologize for it.

I want our family to inherit language. Emotion. Truth.

Not absence.

But I still hear the silence in me.

I still flinch when someone asks how I really feel.

Still battle the urge to shrug instead of speak.

Still catch myself swallowing feelings that deserve to be said.

Change, I’m learning, isn’t a single moment.

It’s a lifetime of unlearning.

Last week, I sat across from my younger cousin, Max. He’s sixteen. His father—my uncle—is the same as mine was. Stern. Cold. Traditional.

Max asked, “Did your dad ever tell you how he felt about you?”

I paused.

Then told him the truth:

“No. Not until he was gone. But I want to be different.”

He smiled, a little sad.

“Me too.”

That’s how it starts.

Not with a speech.

But with a single, honest sentence.

A break in the silence.

A crack in the inheritance.