My name is Abhi. I was born on August 26, 1994. And for as long as I can remember, I have lived with a void inside me—a void shaped like a man I was told had died before I could even speak his name.
I was two when my father left. At that age, you barely understand the world, let alone why someone who gave your life would choose to walk away from it. I grew up in the care of my mother and a stepfather who did what he could. But even in the warmth of a home, I always felt the chill of being "someone else's child." My relatives looked at me differently. I was blood, but I wasn’t fully family. A shadow of a man who had vanished without a trace.
They told me he was gone. Dead. That he wasn’t worth remembering. That he didn’t deserve a place in my heart. And as a child, what choice did I have but to believe them? So, I buried the questions. I learned not to ask. I learned to live with that lie.
But a lie, no matter how long it lives, trembles when the truth knocks.
Not long ago, someone in my family let it slip: my father is alive. Those words didn’t just shake me—they cracked me open. He is alive. Not just a ghost in my head, but a man with breath, skin, a name... and perhaps regrets. They told me he’s not well. That he’s alone. That he never remarried. That after my mother and I, he had no one else.
I felt like the floor disappeared from under me. My heart raced, not with anger, but with something worse: grief reborn. All those moments I had spent wishing for a father’s hug, a father’s voice, a father’s pride—they weren’t impossible dreams. They could have been real. And now I’m drowning in what-ifs.
I’ve tried to find him. I reached out to people who might know where he is. Some blocked me. Some denied knowing him. Some simply shrugged and moved on. But I can’t. I won’t. My heart won’t let me. He is 1200 kilometers away, or so they say. Maybe farther. Maybe gone again. But my soul aches to find him. To see him. To say just one word:
Papa.
I don’t want anything from him. Not money. Not explanations. I just want a moment. A hug. One touch to stitch together the torn fabric of my being. One moment to be a son to the father I never got to know.
If I could speak to him now, I’d say, "Papa, I love you. Aapne mujhe kyu chhoda? Mujhe bhi papa ka pyar chahiye tha." I’m not here to judge. I just want to feel seen. Wanted. Loved.
For thirty years, I have lived thinking my father was gone. And now that I know he might be out there, the silence has never been louder. It echoes in my bones. It cries in my sleep. It follows me like a child reaching out to someone who was never supposed to reach back.
This is not just my story. It’s the story of every child who grows up questioning their worth. Of every parent who disappears into the pages of a past left unwritten. It is the story of longing, of heartbreak, of a hope that refuses to die.
And until I find him, or find peace, I will keep searching. Because the hug I never had still waits for me. Somewhere. Somehow. Still waiting to be returned.