The Broken Silence

The living room was silent, a silence that weighed like a stone slab. The dim light from the lamp cast long shadows on the dark wooden floor. I sat on the couch with my hands clasped, trying to maintain an indifferent posture, though inside, I could feel my heart pounding hard. I knew this conversation would be difficult, but I couldn't help wondering if I was truly ready to face it.

After a few hours, I heard firm footsteps approaching. My father entered the living room with his usual imposing demeanor, dressed in a dark suit that seemed like a second skin. He didn't say anything at first, just looked at me for a few seconds before heading to his favorite armchair, positioned directly across from mine. He sat down slowly, as if every movement were calculated to convey authority.

"What do you need, Sack?" he asked in his low and cold tone, not even looking at me directly.

I took a deep breath, trying to calm my nerves. I didn't want to sound weak, but I also couldn't keep hiding what had been eating away at me since I read that letter.

"I want to talk to you," I said, keeping my voice steady, though I felt my throat tighten slightly. "It's about Mom… I read the letter she left me."

I paused, waiting for some reaction, but his face remained impassive. It was as if I'd mentioned something trivial, something that deserved no more than a blink of attention. However, his eyes… His eyes watched me with an intensity I had never noticed before.

"And what have you discovered?" he finally asked, his tone still neutral.

I swallowed hard, feeling the words get stuck in my throat. Finally, I managed to articulate them.

"You knew she had terminal cancer, didn't you?"

His expression changed ever so slightly, but it was enough to confirm what I already suspected. He nodded slowly, without taking his eyes off me.

"Yes, I knew," he replied simply, as if it were an irrelevant fact.

Anger began bubbling inside me, burning me from within. My fists clenched involuntarily as I confronted him with a mix of pain and frustration.

"How could you let her suffer?! You were her husband! You should have done everything possible to save her!" I exclaimed, my voice trembling with contained rage.

My father didn't respond immediately. Instead, he sighed deeply, as if tired of carrying an invisible weight. When he spoke, his tone was different, less cold and more… human.

"It wasn't my decision, Sack. It was her wish. Your mother chose not to fight the cancer. She wanted to enjoy her last days with you, not spend them bedridden in a hospital receiving treatments that she knew wouldn't change the final outcome."

My eyes burned instantly, but I forced myself not to shed a single tear. Not in front of him. Not now.

"And you just accepted that? Didn't you even try to convince her?" I replied, unable to believe what I was hearing.

"Of course I did," he answered, his voice rising for the first time. "I personally arranged her admission to the Sapphire Grove Hospital. I spoke with the best oncologists. I did everything I could to ensure she had access to the best care possible. But she flatly refused. She told me she preferred to live her final moments surrounded by happiness, close to you, instead of suffering unnecessarily."

I felt my chest compress, as if someone had taken the air out of me. My father's words echoed in my mind, making me see how much I had ignored until now. Mom had always been like that: brave, determined, willing to sacrifice everything for those she loved. And I never understood it.

"But... you could have insisted more," I murmured, though my voice no longer carried the same strength as before. "If you really loved her, you would have done the impossible to save her…"

My father abruptly stood up, his tall and commanding figure filling the room. His face reflected a mix of pain and contained fury.

"Don't you dare question how I felt about her!" he shouted, his voice booming through the silence of the room. "I loved your mother more than anything else in this world. But I also respected her. She was the one who built this empire alongside me. Without her, none of this would exist. She was my equal, not someone I could control!"

I froze, unable to process what I had just heard. I never imagined that my mother had played such a role in the family business. I always thought Dad was the sole architect of everything.

"I didn't know that…" I whispered, feeling small and insignificant.

My father sat back down, exhausted from the emotional outburst. His expression softened, and for the first time, I saw a glimpse of vulnerability in him. Something I never thought possible.

"Your mother was incredible, Sack. Stronger than me, wiser than anyone I've ever known. Before she died, she made me promise something…" He paused, looking away, as if recalling those words physically pained him. "She told me I needed to learn to understand my son, to take care of you as she did. That's why I allowed you to study medicine, even though I always wanted you to follow in my footsteps in business."

The tears I had been holding back finally spilled, sliding down my cheeks without permission. I felt the lump in my throat grow larger, making it hard to breathe.

"Why didn't you ever tell me any of this?" I asked between sobs. "Why have you always acted like you don't care?"

My father lowered his head, defeated.

"Because I didn't know how to do it. I'm not good with emotions; I never have been. But believe me, Sack, every day since your mother passed has been hell. Every day, I've wished I could turn back time and do things differently. But I can't. All I can do is try to fulfill the last promise I made to her."

He stood up again, this time with less energy, as if carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. Before leaving the living room, he stopped and looked at me one last time.

"Your mother loved you more than anything in this world, Sack. And so do I, though I'm not good at showing it. I hope that someday you'll be able to forgive me."

And with that, he disappeared behind the door, leaving me alone in the living room, drowning in tears and memories I never thought I'd feel so vividly again.

Images began flooding my mind like fragments of a forgotten dream, but now they shone with painful clarity. Memories I had buried deep, those that always felt distant, as if they belonged to another life, returned without warning.

I saw my mother smiling, her warm laughter filling the room as she cooked something delicious in the kitchen. My father was there too, not as distant as he is now, but relaxed, even happy. There was a connection between them that, as a young child, I barely understood, but that I now fully grasped: they were a team, a couple who built everything together, brick by brick, sacrifice by sacrifice.

I remembered afternoons at the beach, when we were a complete family. Mom would spread a blanket on the sand while I ran toward the sea, shouting excitedly as I felt the cold waves crash against my legs. My father followed closely behind, pretending to be a shark coming to catch me, and Mom laughed from a distance, mock-seriously warning me to be careful. That day ended with all three of us soaked, laughing under the sun as we ate sandwiches that tasted better than any gourmet meal.

But those memories, though beautiful, also hurt. Because now I understood how fleeting much of that happiness had been. How much of that family unity had been possible thanks to my parents' unconditional love and joint effort. And how much of that life had faded along with Mom's illness.

I wondered if Dad ever remembered those moments. If he ever allowed those happy scenes to reach him in his office, behind his desk, surrounded by papers and contracts that could never bring back what he lost. I wondered if he too felt this emptiness that I feel now, this hole in my chest that neither time nor words could fill.

I clenched my fists, trying to control the emotions threatening to consume me. I didn't want to hate him. I couldn't hate him. For the first time, I saw my father not as the cold, unreachable man I always thought he was, but as someone who had also suffered, who had also lost, and who perhaps never learned how to heal.

It was ironic how those small moments, which at the time seemed insignificant, now shone like precious jewels in my memory. How I wished I had appreciated them more back then, held onto them more carefully, instead of letting them blur with the passage of time.

I wiped my tears with the back of my hand, feeling a mix of sadness and gratitude. Sadness for all that we had lost, but also gratitude for having had, even if briefly, such a special family.

I knew there was still a long way to go. That this conversation didn't solve all the problems or heal all the wounds. But for the first time in years, I felt that maybe, just maybe, there was a chance to rebuild something of what had broken.