Alas The Silence...

My father and I no longer speak. Perhaps it is for the best. I have learned that silence can be louder than any argument, and time is often the only true casualty when pride stands guard.

I am grateful to the man who gave me life and helped guide my earliest steps. His work, his sacrifice, his presence through my childhood, none of it is lost on me. Whatever distance exists between us does not erase what he has given.

There was a time when I wanted to be just like him. He was larger than life, strong, articulate, mysterious. Over time I realized we are only meant to be ourselves. I am my own man, shaped by both my father’s firmness and my mother’s warmth. From her I learned how to brighten a room; from him I learned endurance.

What I have longed for was never victory in an argument, nor the final word. It was something simpler, to be seen not only as a child, but as a man. I remember telling him once, in my youth, “No matter what I say, I will always be a child in your eyes.” Perhaps that is the quiet struggle between fathers and sons: when does guidance become acknowledgment?

Being a parent is not simple. Being a son is not simple either. My father did what he knew. He carried his past in silence, perhaps believing strength meant restraint. I have come to understand that he, too, is simply a man trying to stay afloat.

Recently we stood across from one another again, in a familiar space of tension. His words were firm; mine were calm. For once, I did not retreat. Not to win, but to stand. If there is loss here, it belongs to both of us.

Life is brief. One day the conversations we never finished will no longer matter to the world. They will matter only to the hearts that carried them. My hope is not for apology or triumph. It is for peace. For mutual respect before the story ends.

Until then, my silence is not rebellion. It is restraint. It is the quiet voice of a son who still hopes his father will one day see him, not as a boy challenging authority, but as a man seeking his respect.