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Breaking the Silence of a Father’s Love

Why I write to ensure my children never have to search for love…….

Today my heart is swaying between joy and sadness. Let me tell you why I feel good first. I am nearly 47 years old. Since childhood, I have loved to write. A few days ago, a well-wisher of mine read one of my pieces and said, you write quite well — why don’t you get your writings published? Sometime in the future, we or your children will be able to read them.

Perhaps they will be able to understand you even better. I replied that I didn’t have the patience for all that. After saying it, my mind felt a bit restless. Being a friend, perhaps he understood, he then suggested, Write on Medium. I asked what that was, and he explained the whole thing in detail. That was the beginning of my journey with Medium. Last night, as part of this journey, I was included as a writer in a publication. I don’t know if it’s a very big deal, but for some reason, tears suddenly came to my eyes. I am a very emotional person — even a small good thing brings tears to my eyes. In short, this is the reason for my good mood.

The reason why my heart is somewhat heavy or restless is written below:

This morning, while having tea and scrolling through Facebook, I suddenly saw a post. I see these kinds of posts from time to time, and every time I do, I feel disturbed. My heart grows heavy.

The post read: The pulse of life, the peace of my eyes, the greatest blessing.

I see these words on Facebook — some father has posted a picture of his child and written this; perhaps he gazes at them with eyes full of love and writes from the depths of his heart. I read it… and somewhere inside, there is a very faint sound — like an unspoken cry, like a silent destruction.

I have children too. I look at their faces, their sleeping eyes, their tiny breaths — it’s like a poem written by God that I read every day, yet never fully understand. But right then, a window to my childhood opens… a dark room where I never saw my own reflection in my father’s eyes. Love? Who knows! Was it even there? Or was it just that I couldn’t see it? Or perhaps he simply had no language for it? Between this — not receiving and “not knowing, I still stand today — like an unfinished poem. One that has no rhythm, only sudden memories that prick the skin — hot, cold, like poison.

I don’t know if I am unfortunate. But I know this much — if love did exist, it was like silent dust gathered in the corner of a room that no one ever wiped away for me to see… and I couldn’t see it either. Today, I am a father. And every day — yes, every day — I paint love in my children’s eyes so that one day, many years from now, they do not sit down to write in the language of deprivation. So that they do not have to go searching for love.

I am a father — my effort is only this — that my child should never have to find the word love. I want love to be so integrated into their life, like breath, flowing as color through their blood from birth. May the shadow of loveless emptiness, exhaustion, and despair never touch their heart. I want no trace of tears to ever mark their eyes, may their life be a calm sea where love is their only refuge, their only direction. I want to keep this cry, this search, away from them — because the search for love is agonizingly painful, a monstrously heavy sorrow that I hope my child never has to carry as I do.