My father was born under exile.

He was not supposed to exist. His father, my grandfather, was already hiding when my grandmother became pregnant. For years, they lived apart. Their reunion came after war, arrest, and relocation.

He didn’t grow up with affection. No bedtime stories. No hugs. No “I love you.”
Instead, he got loyalty. Sacrifice. Strength.

He gave me the same.

When I scraped my knee, he said, “You’re fine.”
When I cried in bed, he said, “It’s late. Sleep.”
When I got good grades, he nodded.
When I got bad grades, he nodded.

He never yelled. Never praised. Never touched.
I thought that was normal.
Then I moved abroad.

There, I saw children being hugged, praised, and listened to. They talked at dinner. They argued. They expressed.

I felt awkward just watching.

Even when I had my own son, Derek, I wasn’t sure how to show love. So, I cooked. Planned. Worried. I taught him to be independent. To focus. To push through. Just like I had.

I loved him. Fiercely. But I didn’t know how to say it.
And he didn’t ask.

Years passed. He grew up. Quiet, obedient, kind. A good son.

Then, one day, long after my father had died, Derek sent me a message:
“I saw Grandpa.”
No context. No explanation.

But I knew what he meant.
He had gone back. Quietly. Alone. He had walked the same streets. Felt the same absence.

I sat down and cried.
Not because it hurt. But because it unlocked everything.

Grief I never voiced. Love I never spoke. A goodbye I never gave.

I opened an old album and found a photo I had never shown him - of Derek, asleep in my father’s lap. My father was looking down at him, soft-eyed, protective, unguarded.

I sent it without words.
That night, I realized something:
We may inherit silence. But we don’t have to pass it on.
My father didn’t know how to love out loud. Neither did I.
But somehow, my son does.
And that, to me, is grace.