Hey everyone, I didn’t think I’d ever do this, but here I am, writing a confession on social media. It’s one of those nights where memories become loud in the quiet. So, bear with me; this is my way of acknowledging a truth that has been calling out for years. Maybe it will resonate with some of you.
I grew up as the only child in a loving but very reserved family. My parents were the kind who showed affection in subtle gestures rather than words. I learned early on to interpret their language of love in the form of perfectly brewed morning coffees, a hand-knit scarf for winter, or picking me up after a late-night library session without complaint.
For years, I believed I understood them completely, especially my father. He was a quiet man, an artist, his life punctuated by canvases and silence. He’d paint in the garage, doors wide open, surrounded by the aroma of oil paint and turpentine. I loved watching him create, seeing worlds form under his brush, though I rarely understood the themes. Many times, older relatives would visit, and I’d hear them say, “He puts his soul in those canvases.” But to me, they were just beautiful paintings.
Last month, my father passed away after a long battle with illness. It was a gentle passing, much like his life. While sorting through his belongings, I found one of his old sketchbooks, something I’d never seen him use. Tucked inside was an old, faded envelope, and inside the envelope, a letter addressed to me—unopened.
The letter was dated over 20 years ago, scribbled in my father’s distinct handwriting. The words were an unfamiliar blend of longing and regret. He spoke about his dream of painting full-time but being unable to pursue it because of ‘responsibilities.’ He mentioned a love for someone—a woman I didn’t know, whom he described as a muse.
I felt like a voyeur reading thoughts that were meant to be buried. Up to this point, I thought I knew my father’s story, but here was a new chapter, previously hidden. His words were raw, filled with a yearning for a life he didn’t get to live, one filled with art and passion. But the part that struck me most was the ending. He wrote, ‘In the silence, I found you, my true creation. In your laughter, I find my peace.’
Suddenly, those quiet mornings of warm coffee, the car rides, and the knitted scarves took on new meaning. They were not just gestures of love; they were echoes of a man’s choice to be present, to channel a lifetime of unsaid words into actions that spoke louder than any confession.
This discovery was so subtle, so enmeshed with who I thought I knew, yet it unraveled into a new understanding of his life and choices. It’s strange, isn’t it, how a simple object, a letter, can shift the axis of your world?
This realization brought me a mix of emotions. There was sorrow for the dreams he couldn’t chase, but also immense gratitude. Gratitude that he chose me, chose us. That despite the life he didn’t live, he poured his silent love into the life we shared.
Reading that letter made me reflect on my own choices. I’ve always been drawn to music, but like my father, I’ve kept it in the background, focusing instead on a ‘steady’ career. Yet, isn’t life too short for silence?
In the weeks since, I’ve picked up my old guitar, and every note feels like a conversation with him. I understand now, more than ever, the art of choosing love over regret, and the deep, unspoken bond we shared — a bond painted in the silent moments.
Thank you for reading this. It feels strange yet cathartic to lay it all out here. Maybe it’s my way of finding peace in this new understanding, or perhaps it’s an encouragement, for everyone, to find a voice for their silence.
Warmly,
Laura