The words "I love you" never existed in my family.
Not because love didn't — but because no one ever needed to say it out loud. In our house, affection was silent. It was in the way my mother placed an extra spoon of curry on my plate even after I said I was full. It was in the way my father fixed the broken table fan before summer arrived. It was in our fights, in our reconciliations, in our quiet dinners where we said nothing and yet said everything.
We didn't say "sorry." We didn't say "thank you."
And "I love you"? That was a foreign language — something we watched in movies but never spoke at home.
Growing up, I thought that was normal. I thought love was meant to be practical, unspoken, and strong. But as I grew older, I began to notice cracks — not in their love, but in how we expressed it. My parents loved fiercely, but it wasn't the soft kind. It was the kind that fought through storms, through years of financial worries, through small sacrifices that built a life from nothing. They didn't always get along, but somehow, they always came back to each other. Their love wasn't perfect, but it was real — raw, unpolished, deeply human.
Still, there were days when I felt like something was missing. They gave me everything — food, security, comfort, education — but sometimes love needs to go beyond what can be touched. It has to be felt. And there were moments when I couldn't feel it the way I wanted to. Maybe I wanted more understanding. Maybe I wanted them to listen without judgment. Maybe I wanted space — not out of rebellion, but to breathe, to think, to exist without being molded by their expectations.
Sometimes, love can be heavy. So heavy that it starts to feel like a burden rather than a blessing. I carried the weight of their sacrifices — every decision they made, every dream they set aside so I could have a better life. They gave me so much that I started doubting whether I truly deserved it. Whether I was living for myself or simply living the life they imagined for me.
Yesterday was one of those days that began ordinarily and ended with an unexpected ache.
It started with a conversation about my little sister. My father was sitting on the veranda, sipping tea while reading the newspaper. I joined him, half-listening as he talked about her future — college options, stable jobs, how she should think practically. I smiled, nodding at all the right times. But then, without warning, his focus shifted to me.
"And you?" he asked suddenly, folding the newspaper. "What about your plans? You've been quiet about your work lately."
I froze. It wasn't supposed to be about me.
Still, I shrugged. "I'm doing fine, Daddy."
"Fine?" he repeated, frowning. "You've been abroad for years now. You should be doing more than 'fine.' You're the eldest. You're supposed to lead the way."
That word — eldest — felt heavier than ever.
I looked at him, at his aging face, at the lines etched from years of worry and work. I wanted to tell him that I was trying. That I was working hard, even when everything felt uncertain. That life wasn't as simple as he thought — not anymore.
But instead, frustration spilled out of me.
"Why is it always about what I'm supposed to do?" I snapped. "Why can't it be about what I want to do?"
He looked startled. I rarely raised my voice.
"What do you mean?" he asked quietly.
I sighed, my chest tightening. "You've given me everything, Daddy. A better life than you had, I know that. But that doesn't mean controlling everything . I want to build something for myself — something that isn't measured by your standards or anyone else's. You worked hard for me to have choices, but now that I'm choosing differently, it feels like I'm disappointing you."
He stayed silent.
For a moment, only the sound of crickets filled the air. Then, softly, he said, "I just want you to be secure. To not suffer the way I did."
"I know," I whispered. "But sometimes your way of protecting me feels like a cage. I need to live my own way — even if that means falling."
He didn't reply. He just looked at me — not angry, not hurt, just… thoughtful. I could tell he wanted to understand, even if he didn't fully know how.
That night, I couldn't sleep.
I thought about everything he's done — the nights he worked overtime, the mornings he skipped breakfast so we could eat more, the way he never complained even when life was hard. He gave me everything I needed to survive. But I still longed for the freedom to live.
That's why I left home years ago. Everyone thought it was for education, for a better career. And yes, that was part of it. But the truth runs deeper. I left because I needed space — space to figure out who I am without being someone's daughter, someone's example, someone's hope. I never told them that. Maybe I was scared they'd misunderstand. Or maybe I just didn't want to hurt them. So I kept it locked away, like a secret folded neatly between my ribs.
Living overseas has been both liberation and loneliness. In the beginning, I felt free — no rules, no expectations, just the open air of possibility. But soon, I realized that freedom comes with its own kind of emptiness. I began to miss the noise of home, the smell of my mother's cooking, the sound of my father's footsteps in the hallway. I began to see them differently — not as people who controlled me, but as people who did their best with what they knew.
Sometimes, late at night, when the city lights outside my window blur like stars, I imagine the day I'll go back home. I imagine sitting beside my parents, no longer as the child they raised, but as a woman who finally understands the weight of love, sacrifice, and distance. I want to tell them everything — why I left, what I learned, what I've become.
I want to tell them that even though I left, I never stopped loving them. That every decision I made, even the ones they didn't understand, came from a place of wanting to grow — not away from them, but beyond what they expected.
And maybe when that day comes, I'll finally say the words I never could before.
Not because it's expected, not because it's time — but because I'll finally mean it in a way I never could as a child.
"I love you."
Three simple words, yet the heaviest I've ever carried.
Because now, I understand that love isn't just about staying close — sometimes, it's about finding your way back home with a heart that finally knows how to speak.