The funeral ended faster than I expected.
People left in groups. Their voices faded. The house slowly returned to silence, but it wasn't the same silence as before. This one felt heavier. Permanent.
I sat on the floor in his room.
Not because I wanted to. Because I didn't know where else to go.
His wardrobe was still open. I don't remember opening it. Maybe someone else did. Maybe it had always been like that.
I reached for one of his shirts. It was the blue one he wore on Sundays. Slightly faded at the collar. I used to think he only had three good shirts. I used to joke about it in my head.
I never asked why he never bought more.
Inside the shirt pocket, I felt something folded.
A small piece of paper.
I hesitated before opening it, like it might explode or change everything.
It didn't explode.
It just hurt.
It was a receipt.
From years ago.
School tuition fee. My name written at the top in black ink. Paid in full.
The date hit me.
That was the same month he told me we couldn't afford a new phone for me. I had shouted at him that night. Told him he never understood how embarrassing it was to be the only one with an old model.
He didn't argue.
He just said, "We'll see next time."
There was no next time.
I pressed the receipt against my forehead and let out a laugh that didn't sound human.
All this time, I thought he was strict. Stingy. Cold.
But maybe he was just choosing me in ways I never noticed.
I leaned back against the wall and stared at the ceiling.
How many times did he sacrifice something quietly?
How many times did I mistake love for control?
The memories started lining up differently now. Like pieces of a puzzle I never tried to solve.
Him waiting at the gate when it rained.
Him pretending not to be tired after work.
Him eating last at dinner.
He never said he loved me.
But maybe he thought he didn't have to.
Maybe he thought I already knew.
And that's the part that scares me the most.
Because I didn't.
Not until it was too late.
The house grew quieter as the sun began to set.
I didn't realize how long I had been sitting there until I heard something from the kitchen.
A small sound.
Not loud. Not dramatic.
Just the faint clatter of a spoon against a cup.
I stepped out of my father's room and walked toward the sound.
My mother stood by the stove.
Her back looked smaller than I remembered.
Not physically smaller. Just… fragile.
Her hair, once tied tightly every morning, now hung loosely with strands of grey I swear weren't there before. Her hands trembled slightly as she tried to pour tea into two cups.
Two cups.
My throat tightened.
She stared at them for a few seconds before slowly pushing one away.
I had never noticed her hands before.
How thin they were.
How tired they looked.
How worn.
She had always been "just there." Cooking. Cleaning. Asking if I ate. Telling me to sleep early. Small things I brushed off with half-answers and closed doors.
I thought she was strong.
Unbreakable.
But as she turned around and saw me, her eyes weren't strong.
They were empty.
Not crying. Not screaming.
Just… empty.
And somehow that was worse.
"When will they bring his photo?" she asked softly, like she was asking about groceries.
I opened my mouth but no words came out.
This woman had shared a life with him for decades.
And now she was standing alone in a kitchen that still smelled like him.
I suddenly felt ashamed.
I was drowning in my own regret, but I hadn't even looked at her once today.
Not properly.
I had lost a father.
She had lost half her life.
And I had never noticed how much she depended on his quiet presence. The way she would ask him small things. The way she waited for him before eating. The way she complained about him but always defended him when someone else did.
All those tiny things I ignored.
She reached for the second cup again.
Her hand froze midway.
Then slowly, carefully, she placed it back in the cupboard.
That simple movement hurt more than the funeral.
Because it meant she was starting to understand he wasn't coming back.
And for the first time that day, I saw my mother not as "Mom."
But as a woman.
Old. Tired. Broken.
And I realized something even more painful.
While I was busy misunderstanding my father…
I never really saw her either. If only there was a way to fix this...