The Day I Found My Father's Journal

I was never close to my father.It’s not that we didn’t get along—we just existed beside each other. He was the quiet, stern type. The kind of man who never raised his voice, never lost his cool, and never told you how he felt. He worked hard, read the newspaper religiously, and believed emotions were something you kept folded up in your back pocket, like an old receipt you never threw away.

Growing up, I always felt like I was walking beside a shadow. He was present but never fully there. At school events, he'd sit in the back, arms crossed. At home, he’d eat quietly, then disappear into his study. I learned not to expect hugs or “I’m proud of you.” And somewhere along the way, I stopped trying to earn them.

When he passed away two years ago, it didn’t hit me like I thought it would. People asked if I was okay, and I nodded. I even felt guilty that I didn’t cry at his funeral. I sat there in my black suit, dry-eyed, while others wept. It felt like mourning a stranger.

It wasn’t until I was helping my mother pack up his things that I found the journal.

It was hidden inside his bottom drawer, under old tax documents and faded photographs. A simple leather-bound notebook, slightly worn at the edges. No lock, no title. Just his name written inside in his unmistakable handwriting: "Property of Arun Mehta."

I opened it out of idle curiosity, expecting financial notes or maybe to-do lists. But what I found was something else entirely.

It began with a dated entry from 1995—the year I was born.“He was born today at 3:24 p.m. His cry was louder than anything I’ve ever heard. I didn’t know what to feel. Joy? Fear? Responsibility? Maybe all of it. I’m scared I won’t know how to be a father.”

I froze. I had never known this man to express fear—not in his voice, not in his face, not in anything. And yet here it was, in ink.

I kept reading. “He took his first steps today. Stumbled twice, then reached for my leg. I didn’t pick him up. I wanted him to learn to stand again. But God, I wanted to hold him so badly.”And again: “He asked me if I was proud of him when he won his first medal. I told him good job and patted his head. But what I wanted to say was, ‘You’re everything I never was.’ Why didn’t I say it? Why is it so hard to speak love out loud?”

The further I read, the heavier my chest felt.

There were entries about birthdays he forgot to celebrate properly, about nights he watched me sleep after we fought, about regrets he had no one to share with. One entry was written after a terrible argument we’d had when I was 16 and told him I hated him.“He said he hated me. Maybe he did. Maybe he still does. But if I let go of that anger, what am I holding onto? My father never told me he loved me either. I thought I was breaking the chain by providing more. Turns out, love needs words.”

I wept. Alone. Sitting on the floor of his study.

In that moment, I realized something painful: My father did love me. Fiercely. Quietly. Clumsily. But he didn’t know how to show it. And I, so desperate to feel it in the ways I understood—hugs, praise, affection—never thought to look deeper. That night, I took the journal home. I read every page, every line. I learned things about his childhood I never knew. About the pressure he felt being the eldest of seven. About how he wanted to be a writer but chose accounting to support the family. About how he stayed in a job he hated for 27 years just so I could go to a good school.

It changed how I saw him.

I began to remember small things that once felt insignificant—how he always checked that my bike tires were filled, how he stood in the rain waiting for my school bus, how he silently left an extra blanket at the foot of my bed on cold nights.

Those were his love letters.

We all love differently. Some people show it in loud, colorful ways. Others fold it quietly into actions, hoping you’ll notice. My father was the latter.

A week later, I asked my mom why he never gave the journal to me.

She smiled gently. “He thought you wouldn’t want it. He was waiting for the right time.”

I think the right time came when I was finally ready to understand it.

Now, I keep the journal by my bed. I still read it sometimes, especially on days when I feel alone. It reminds me that love isn’t always about how loud it’s said—it’s about how deeply it's carried.

If I ever have a child, I’ll speak love out loud. But I’ll also remember to show it quietly too. Just like my father