There are some regrets that do not scream.
They simply sit beside you every day.
Mine is measured in months.
For nearly five months, I did not speak to my father.
People who hear that sentence may imagine anger.
It wasn’t anger.
It was shame.
It was exhaustion.
It was a daughter trying to disappear from everyone she loved because she believed she had become the source of too much pain.
Life had become tangled in ways I never imagined.
The mistakes were mine—not deliberate, but real. Poor decisions, difficult circumstances, and the consequences that followed had created ripples throughout my own family. I felt responsible. I wanted to heal before returning to the people I loved.
So I did something I thought would protect them.
I walked away for a while.
I blocked Appa.
My husband blocked him.
Even my daughter had no contact with him.
I convinced myself that distance would make everything easier—for him and for me.
I believed that if I could quietly rebuild my life, I would return stronger.
I never imagined time would run out.
What I did not know then was that Appa never stopped reaching for me.
He called my phone.
He tried reaching me through my husband.
Through my daughter.
When none of that worked, he contacted my close friend.
He even went to see him in person.
His request was heartbreakingly simple.
“Can you please ask her to send me just one message? Or ask her to message her mother. I only want to know if she is alright.”
My friend still carries the pain of not being able to fulfil that last wish.
For a long time, I carried the weight of believing I had failed him.
Then I began looking at it differently.
The silence between us was never empty.
It was filled with love that neither of us knew how to express at that moment.
While I stayed away because I felt ashamed…
He kept searching because he loved me.
That is the truth.
He always had.
He had found ways forward.
So perhaps I believed there would always be more time.
Time to call.
Time to explain.
Time to apologise.
Time to return.
I did not know that one day there would be no more time.
That is the cruelest thing about regret.
It does not come from not loving someone.
It comes from knowing that you loved them—and still believing you could speak to them later.
I did not know that my last silence would become permanent.
I did not know that the last time my father tried to reach me would become something I would carry forever.
I had wanted to heal.
I had wanted to take a break from the world.
Nothing else.
There was another burden resting quietly on his shoulders.
I knew he was facing serious financial difficulties.
After my younger sister’s wedding, it became obvious that something was wrong.
He never admitted the full extent of it.
Even when gently confronted, he protected us from the details.
That was who he was.
He carried burdens instead of sharing them.
I believed he would eventually speak.
I believed our family still had enough to recover.
There were assets.
Property.
Jewellery.
A lifetime of hard work.
I thought there would be time for honest conversations.
There wasn’t.
I had wanted to give him space to deal with his own difficulties.
But somewhere between all those reasons, the days passed.
Then the weeks.
Then the months.
His birthday arrived on March 3.
For as long as I can remember, I had always been the first to wish him.
I loved celebrating him.
I would surprise him with cakes, photographs, messages, and endless teasing.
That year…
Silence.
No birthday wish.
No phone call.
Nothing.
I often wonder whether he waited.
Perhaps he did.
Perhaps he simply understood.
I will never know.
April 6 arrived.
My daughter celebrated another birthday.
We laughed.
We smiled.
We celebrated together here in Canada.
Two days later…
My world changed forever.