When I Look in the Mirror, I Hear Him

I look in the mirror, and I hear him.

By [Abdul Hadi]

Not see—hear.

His voice creeps in through the corners of my memory like a draft through a cracked window.

“You’re too soft.”

“Act like a man.”

“Stop whining before I give you something to cry about.”

I never asked for his voice. But it lives in me now—like mold under paint.

I remember watching him shave when I was little. I'd sit on the toilet lid, legs swinging, watching his every move. He never smiled during those moments. He never spoke either, except for the occasional grunt or curse when the blade nicked skin.

Back then, I thought he looked powerful—untouchable. I thought, “I want to be like that.”

Now I look into my own mirror and wonder, Did I become him? Or did he never really leave?

He wasn’t always cruel.

He fixed my bike when I wrecked it at eight.

He brought me a Coke after my first heartbreak, though he never asked what happened.

He worked two jobs so I’d never have to.

But he never told me he loved me.

Not once.

What he did say, he said loud.

He told me my art was a waste of time.

That real men use hammers, not pencils.

That emotions were for women.

That therapy was a scam.

That pain is private.

So I learned to lock it all away.

Tucked feelings behind sarcasm. Hid insecurities with achievements.

I spoke with confidence I hadn’t earned and made decisions I didn’t believe in—just to avoid hearing that voice in my head say, “Weak.”

I used to swear I’d never be like him.

But now, I notice things.

How my voice gets sharp when I’m under pressure.

How I flinch when someone questions me.

How I suck my teeth and cross my arms like he did when I don’t like what I’m hearing.

And the worst part?

Sometimes, when my own son cries—I freeze.

I don’t yell. I don’t strike.

But I hear that same venomous whisper in the back of my mind:

“Man up.”

And I hate that I hear it.

Because I remember what it felt like to be on the other side of it.

He died three years ago. Stroke.

Sudden and quiet, like the opposite of his life.

I didn’t cry at his funeral.

I didn’t speak either.

What would I have said?

“That man terrified me, and I wanted to be him”?

“That I loved someone I never felt safe around”?

That I carry him inside me, even now?

A month after he passed, I found a box in his closet labeled "Aaron." My name.

Inside were drawings I had made as a kid. Crumpled superheroes, messy stick figures, a Mother’s Day card I accidentally gave him instead of Mom.

He had kept them all. Quietly. Never said a word.

He also kept a letter I wrote at fifteen—the one I never gave him. The one that started,

“Sometimes I hate you for how you make me feel.”

He had unfolded it carefully and taped it back shut.

That shattered me more than any insult ever did.

I don’t believe in ghosts, but I believe in patterns.

And for the past year, I’ve been trying to break them.

I started therapy. Quietly, like a secret rebellion.

I apologized to my wife for the walls I built around my emotions.

I told my son I was proud of him just for being himself. Not for winning. Not for trying. Just... being.

And when he cried over a broken toy last month, I sat beside him and said,

“It’s okay to feel sad. That’s what makes us human.”

He looked at me, surprised.

And then he smiled.

That smile was worth everything.

Tonight, I looked in the mirror again.

Same face. Same jawline as him. Same tired eyes.

But this time, I didn’t just hear his voice.

I heard mine, too.

Soft. Still unsure. But growing stronger.

I don’t know if I’ll ever be free of his shadow completely.

But I know now—I don’t have to live in it.