Today, Father's Day

Today is Father's Day.

Social media is filled with smiling pictures, heart-touching captions, and childhood memories – fathers holding their babies, teaching them to ride bicycles, walking them to school. It’s a beautiful day for many. But for some, it’s a reminder of a void too deep to explain. This is a story of one such boy – Rihan – who never saw his father, not even once.

Rihan was born on a stormy night in June. His mother, Mitali, was in a small government hospital in a quiet village. The nurses whispered as they looked at her belly. Everyone knew the story – her husband, Arif, had passed away just two months before in a tragic road accident on his way back from work. Mitali was five months pregnant when fate snatched away the man she loved more than her own life.

When Rihan was born, there was no one standing outside the delivery room with eager eyes or trembling hands. No proud father holding back tears of joy. Only silence… and Mitali’s silent weeping.

As Rihan grew up, the questions began.

"Where's Baba?" he asked one evening, holding a broken toy in his hand.

Mitali paused for a long time, then said, "Your Baba is in the stars, my child. He’s watching over you."

That night, Rihan sat on the rooftop, staring at the sky. He chose the brightest star and whispered, “I fixed my toy, Baba. Did you see?”

His childhood was not empty – his mother was his world. But on Father's Day, things were different. At school, when children made cards and crafts, Rihan would sit quietly in the corner, folding paper for no one. Once, a teacher asked, "Why aren’t you making a card?" and he softly replied, “I don’t know what my Baba looks like.”

Every year, on this day, Mitali would take out a small box from the almirah – a treasure chest filled with memories. There was an old photograph of Arif, holding a kite in one hand, smiling at the camera. Rihan would hold that photo gently, as if touching it too hard would erase the last trace of his father.

“Did he love the sky?” Rihan once asked.

“Yes,” said his mother, “He said the sky was his freedom. That he wanted his son to be free too.”

Years passed. Rihan turned 18. He still didn’t know what it was like to hear a father’s advice, feel a father’s hug, or cry on a father's shoulder after a heartbreak. But he grew strong – emotionally, quietly. His strength was different – not the kind that lifts weight, but the kind that carries pain with dignity.

On Father's Day 2025, Rihan did something new. He wrote a letter – not for social media, not for anyone to read. Just for the wind.

Dear Baba,

I never got to meet you, but I talk to you every day.

When I win, I thank you.

When I fall, I imagine your hand helping me up.

I see you in the rain, in the sky, in the silence before I sleep.

They say you were kind. I try to be like you.

They say you loved people. I try to make you proud.

And though I never saw you, I carry you inside me – in my smile, in my stubbornness, in my dreams.

Today is Father's Day, and I want to tell you – I miss you, even if I never knew you.

Love,

Your son,

Rihan

Father’s Day is not just for those who are present.

It’s also for those who left too soon, who became memories, who became stories, who became stars in their children's skies. And it’s for the children – like Rihan – who carry those memories like invisible medals of strength.

So if you are someone who never had the chance to say "Happy Father's Day" face to face, know this – love doesn't need presence. Love survives absence. Love lives on.

Today, on Father’s Day, look at the sky. Someone up there might be smiling back.

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