A House Without a Shadow

From the moment I opened my eyes to the world, my father was already slipping away from it. He passed when I was only eight months old, too young to remember his face, his voice, or the way he carried me in his arms. I grew up in a home where his absence was louder than any sound. His name was spoken like a prayer, with sorrow lingering in the air whenever my mother uttered it.

My mother—strong, but weary—had to bear the weight of survival alone. Every day was a struggle to keep food on the table, to shield me from the harsh reality of our loss. She never cried in front of me, but I knew—on nights when silence filled the house like a heavy fog—that she sat awake, clutching the past in her trembling hands.

People told stories about him: how he laughed, how he worked hard, how he dreamed of raising me with love and protection. But these were just echoes. I longed for something real—a touch, a memory, a single moment to call my own. I searched for him in old photographs, in the way my mother’s eyes looked when she thought no one was watching.

As I grew older, the pain settled deep, no longer sharp but ever-present. I wanted answers. I wanted justice against fate. But grief doesn’t negotiate—it stays, it molds you, it becomes a part of who you are.
Contunue resting in peace my beloved father😭😭😭