He Never Came Home Again

Some people remember their father’s face.

Some remember their voice.

Some remember the smell of their shirt, the warmth of their hugs, the sound of their laughter.

Me?

I remember… nothing.

Because I never saw my father. Not even once.

I was born in a small village hospital during the rainy season.

My father was working in Dhaka, at a textile factory.

A few weeks before my birth, my mother had begged him on the phone,

“Come home. Your son wants to arrive into your arms.”

He laughed and said, “Just one more week. I’ll collect my salary and come back with gifts.”

That week never ended.

A truck…

A phone call…

A shattered world.

My father never came home.

My mother, eight months pregnant, received only silence instead of a husband.

Growing up, I never knew what “Baba” felt like.

At school, when other kids ran into their father’s arms after class, I ran into silence.

On Father's Day, when everyone made cards, I sat at the corner, folding blank paper with a trembling heart.

I used to draw stars instead of writing "Happy Father's Day"—because my mother once told me:

“Your father became the brightest star in the sky.”

And from that day on, I started talking to the stars.

When I was ten, I found an old metal box in my mother’s trunk.

Inside was a yellowed letter, wrapped carefully.

It was my father’s handwriting.

He had written:

“By the time you read this, I’m probably already on the train home. Have you thought of a name for our son?

I want him to walk with pride, carry our name with strength, and never look back in fear.”

That was the first and only letter I ever read from my father.

I held it like a lifeline, as if touching it would bring him back.

And I cried—not like a child, but like someone who had waited ten years to grieve.

Now I’m 22.

The world sees me as a man. Strong, independent, busy.

But no one sees the boy who still wishes his father would walk through the door.

No one hears me whisper “Baba” when I look at the sky at night.

No one knows how I still imagine him clapping for me after every small achievement.

Today is Father’s Day.

People are posting photos, writing long captions, baking cakes.

Me?

I just sit with my thoughts and a letter that smells of memories.

But this love I carry…

This quiet grief…

It’s not weakness. It’s power. It’s loyalty to someone I never met, but who lives in my blood.

I may never have heard his voice.

But I hear him in the wind, in the rain, in my heartbeat.

And in my mother’s tired smile, I see the reflection of a love that never died.

To anyone who never had the chance to say “Happy Father’s Day” out loud—

You are not forgotten.

Your love is not smaller because it’s silent.

Your grief is not invisible because it hides behind strength.

Some of us celebrate Father’s Day not with cards… but with tears.

Not with hugs… but with memories that never happened.

Today, I didn’t post a photo.

I didn’t write a caption.

I just wrote this story—

For the man who never came home,

But who lives with me every single day.