A Father Forgotten

The sun was setting behind the mountains, casting a golden hue over the dusty fields where Rahman walked slowly, his back slightly hunched, his shoes torn, and his clothes worn thin by the years. He was returning home from a long day of labor — not in an office or a comfortable shop, but in a brick kiln, where sweat and blood mixed into every brick he helped mold.

Rahman had never had much for himself. His entire adult life was built around the idea of providing for his children. When his first son was born, he promised himself that this child would never feel the hunger he had felt as a child, never sleep on the floor as he had, never wear torn shoes in the snow like he had done many winters ago.

So he worked.

Every single day. Under the burning sun, under heavy rain, and even when his body begged for rest. He wore the same old clothes year after year — not because he didn’t care about his appearance, but because the little money he earned had better places to go: school fees, books, clean clothes for his children, and food for their small lunchboxes.

He skipped his own meals so his children could have meat on Fridays. He walked miles so they could take the school bus. And when they fell sick, he sold his only cow to pay the hospital bills.

People in the village used to admire him. "A poor man," they said, "but a rich father."

Years passed. His sacrifices bore fruit. His eldest became an engineer. His second daughter became a nurse. The youngest was studying abroad on scholarship. Rahman could have smiled at his success — not in wealth, but in raising strong, educated children.

But life has a strange way of rewarding love with silence.

His children left the village, one by one. Calls became shorter. Visits became rare. When Rahman would call, they would say, “Baba, I’m busy. I’ll call later.” That "later" never came.

When his knees began to fail, and he couldn’t work anymore, he hoped one of them would ask, “Baba, do you need help?” But pride kept him from begging. He smiled when people asked about his children, hiding the tears that his nights knew too well.

He still wore the same old clothes. His house, once filled with laughter, now echoed with silence. No one sat with him during Eid. No one brought him warm food in winter. No one sent him medicine when he was coughing blood.

And yet, when villagers would mention his children, he would lift his chin and say, “They’re doing great. I’m proud of them.”

One evening, he collapsed near the well. A neighbor carried him home. For days, he lay there — no electricity, no one to fetch water, no warm meal. Just memories.

It wasn’t until a local social worker posted his photo online that one of his sons responded. He flew back, weeping beside his unconscious father.

“Baba, I’m sorry… I didn’t know.”

But Rahman never woke up to hear it.

He died in silence, the same way he had lived most of his life — quietly giving, never asking.

At his funeral, people cried. His children wept. But the village people knew. They had seen this before. A father’s love — unspoken, unconditional, and too often… forgotten.

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Moral:

Never forget the hands that raised you, even if they are old, weak, or calloused. The warm meals you eat, the clothes you wear, the knowledge in your mind — all were planted by someone who gave up everything so you could have something.