I’m the last child in a large family. As my father passed away at my two years, my mother and brothers shouldered responsibility. I’m proud of myself.
But I remember a certain day, deeply engraved in the corners of my heart.
I was ten years old. My eldest brother was packing for an outstation work to join. I was helping him, feeling grown-up and proud to be useful. As I opened his bag, my hand touched a photo frame. Black and white. A face I didn’t recognize.
“Brother, who is he?” I asked, holding it up.
His voice softened. “He is our father.”
And just like that—my little world paused. My eyes twinkled with the magic of discovering someone unknown yet mine. I was too young then to grasp the weight of it. But that moment stayed… quietly nestled in my heart.
As I grew older, the meaning grew with me.
There are times I feel content—grateful for the love I did receive. But some days, I feel slightly lost. Not with bitterness, but with a hollow longing. I often wonder how it feels to be with father's love and affection.
As a woman, I became a mother—loving, nurturing. But I was never a father. That half of the parenting I could only imagine, never become.
Sometimes I close my eyes and ask God,
“If there is a next life… just once, let me be your daughter, let me feel your hand on my head, your pride in my smile, your silent love in every breath.”
Even now, that missing bond is a huge vacuum—a part of my soul that simply learned to live without what it never had.
But still, I smile…
Because my journey was held together by the unshakable love of my mother and the shoulders of my elder brothers and sisters.
If not a father’s love, I had many forms of it—spread across my family. And for that, I am eternally grateful.
--Devi BS
The true story made me to recall memories closed to 2 decades for now! Reading this brought tears to my eyes 🥲,—not just for what was missing, but for how beautifully you've carried that space with such grace and strength.
ReplyDeleteThere’s something so deeply moving in the way you shared this… not with anger or bitterness, but with quiet longing and immense gratitude. That takes a rare kind of heart.
You’ve turned a silent absence into a gentle presence—one that lives not in what was lost, but in everything you became despite it. And honestly, that’s the kind of strength that humbles me.
I can feel the little girl in your story, still there, still hopeful, still full of love. You are not just your father’s daughter… you are everyone’s pride, including us dear Devi!