"Some goodbyes don't echo loud. They just stay in the heart like an unfinished song."
Three months passed since the boy met his father for the first time.
That memory—of running across the dusty road, carrying his father's heavy bags with his little hands—was now tucked deep in his heart like a precious toy. But just like the toys he eventually grew tired of, time started to pull that memory farther away.
His father had gone again.
And this time, the goodbye was quieter.
There was no tearful farewell at the bus stop. Just a long hug. A pat on the head. A few photos. And promises like "I'll be back soon" and "I'll call you every week," whispered into the wind.
But soon started stretching into later.
And later turned into silence.
The boy began to change. Not in big ways, no.
He still woke up early. Still brushed his teeth. Still walked to school in his half-polished shoes. But his eyes—those big, searching eyes—grew quieter.
Each morning, he waited by the wooden gate before going to school, hoping maybe his father would appear, like he did last time.
Maybe it was a surprise. Maybe Papa would jump out with chocolates in his pocket and lift him high in the air.
But the road always remained empty.
At school, he was quieter now.
He didn't raise his hand to answer anymore. He didn't run on the playground or fight over who gets to sit on the front bench.
During lunch, he would eat slowly—his eyes watching other kids being picked up by their dads. Some came on motorcycles. Some in uniforms. Some with bags of hot momos.
He would chew and smile, but deep inside, he kept asking himself:
"Why not me?"
One afternoon, after school, he came home to find his mother crying in the kitchen. She quickly wiped her tears and smiled.
"Why are you crying, Mama?"
She shook her head, forcing a laugh. "Just cutting onions."
He looked at the kitchen counter. There were no onions.
He didn't ask again. Instead, he went into his room, pulled out his crayons, and began to draw. His fingers were small, but his emotions were heavy.
The drawing showed a family—Papa, Mama, and him—sitting on a picnic mat, eating together. Under the sketch, in shaky handwriting, he wrote:
"I want this."
The next day, he asked his mother for paper and stamps.
"I want to send Papa a letter."
"But you don't know how to write yet, baby," she said.
"I'll draw."
So he began writing—not with words, but with colors.
Every week, a new drawing went into the post:
A house with three windows and a big sun. A tree with a swing. A small boy holding a man's hand.
His mother helped him send them to an address that was long and confusing. A place somewhere in the Middle East, written in English letters that neither of them fully understood.
But they hoped. That maybe, somehow, the letters would reach him.
Days passed. Then weeks. No reply.
The boy waited every day at the gate for the postman.
One day, the postman handed him a letter. His hands trembled.
But it wasn't from his father. It was just a money order—sent through someone else.
A bunch of notes wrapped in silence.
"Why does Papa only send money?" the boy asked his mother.
She knelt and held his hands. Her lips trembled. "Because... he thinks that's the way to show love."
"I don't want money," he whispered. "I want him."
His mother couldn't say anything.
So, she hugged him tighter than ever and cried into his little shoulder.
That night, it rained heavily.
The thunder was loud, the wind Cruel. The boy got scared and ran to his mother's room.
"Mama! I'm scared!"
She pulled him into bed and held him close.
"If Papa was here, I wouldn't be scared," he said.
His mother stayed silent, holding back the scream in her heart. Because truth was—she was scared too. Scared of nights. Scared of days. Scared of the loneliness that felt like it was slowly swallowing her whole.
They both fell asleep crying that night but holding each other like the only people left in the world.
Then came Father's Day at school.
The teacher gave everyone a task—write about your father, your hero.
The classroom filled with noise and excitement. Kids laughed and scribbled stories of how their dads fixed their toys, brought them candies, and told bedtime stories.
But one desk stayed quiet.
The boy sat there, eyes staring at the blank paper. His pencil didn't move.
The teacher walked over. "Why haven't you written anything?"
"I don't know my father well enough," he replied softly.
That silence hit the teacher like a slap. She walked away, unable to say anything.
That night, the boy came home and didn't eat dinner. He sat in the corner, drawing again. But this time, he drew a boy sitting alone under a tree, looking at the sky.
And in the sky, written in crayon letters:
"Papa, are you watching me?"
One evening, his mother got a call. A voice on the other end spoke in rushed words, and she smiled—finally, it was him.
She gave the phone to the boy. His hands shook.
"Hello?" he said.
There was silence... then, "My son…"
The boy's eyes filled with tears the moment he heard that voice. "Papa! When are you coming? Can you come tomorrow?"
"I'm working, beta. But I'll come soon. I miss you."
The boy choked back his tears. "Promise?"
"Yes. I promise."
But deep inside, he had stopped believing in promises.
He hung up and walked outside. The moon was bright.
He looked up and whispered, "Papa... do you even remember what I look like?"
He pulled out the old photo of his father—now folded and worn—and pressed it to his chest.
From that day, he stopped waiting at the gate.
Because even a child knows...
Hope hurts the most when it waits too long.