I Loved You the Way I Was Taught

My father loved in straight lines.
He believed love was shown by staying.
He believed love was shown by working.
He believed love was shown by never leaving.

He woke before sunrise every day.
He returned after sunset every night.
His hands smelled of dust and metal.
His eyes carried the weight of years.

When I was a child he did not hug often.
He did not ask how I felt.
He fixed broken chairs and paid school fees.
He stood behind me at ceremonies in silence.

In his mind this was love.
His father had given him even less.
No words.
No warmth.
Only rules and survival.

I grew up learning that love meant endurance.
It meant showing up even when the heart stayed quiet.
It meant loyalty without language.
I did not know there were other ways.

When I met her I carried this education inside me.
She laughed easily.
She spoke with her eyes.
She believed love was conversation.
She believed love was presence.

But I did not ask enough questions.
I did not notice her silences growing longer.
I believed stability was enough.
I believed time would speak for me.

She asked me once what I felt.
I answered by fixing her problems.
She asked me once if I missed her.
I answered by staying another year.

We lived together but spoke different languages.
Her love reached outward.
Mine stood still and solid.
Neither of us were wrong.

One night she cried quietly beside me.
I held her shoulder without words.
She did not pull away.
She did not lean in.

She told me she felt alone with me.
I did not understand how that was possible.
I was right there.
I had never left.

She said love needed listening.
She said love needed softness.
She said love needed to change shape.

I felt something crack open then.
Not anger.
Not blame.
Recognition.

I saw my father standing in our room.
Not in body but in pattern.
I saw his long days.
I saw his quiet sacrifices.

I realized I was loving her through him.
Through what he had survived.
Through what he had never been taught to say.

She did not ask me to erase my past.
She asked me to meet her present.
She asked me to learn.

Learning felt like betrayal at first.
As if speaking meant I was dishonoring silence.
As if softness meant weakness.

But love asked more of me.
It asked me to translate what I inherited.
It asked me to grow.

I tried to speak even when my voice shook.
I tried to listen without fixing.
I tried to name feelings I had buried for years.

Sometimes I failed.
Sometimes I returned to old habits.
But something had shifted.

Love was no longer a duty alone.
It became a dialogue.
It became a bridge.

She stayed long enough to see the change.
She did not stay forever.
Growth does not always arrive in time.

When she left she did not blame me.
She thanked me for trying.
That hurt more than anger.

Now when I think of love I think of choice.
Not just inheritance.
Not just survival.

I still honor my father.
I understand him better now.
He loved me the way he was taught.

I do not resent him.
I carry him with compassion.
But I do not stop there.

If I love again it will be with awareness.
I will ask what is needed.
I will listen before assuming.

Because love is not only about staying.
It is about meeting someone where they are.
It is about learning new languages.

Generational love can be a beginning.
It does not have to be the ending.