The Words I Never Got to Say
The Words I Never Got to Say
BY: Ubaid
I always believed there would be more time.
More time to sit across from him at the small wooden table in our kitchen.
More time to argue about politics and laugh about old family stories.
More time to say the things that sat quietly in my chest, waiting for the “right moment.”
But life rarely waits for the right moment.
The last time I saw my father, it was an ordinary Thursday. The kind that slips through your fingers unnoticed. I was in a hurry, as usual—late for work, phone buzzing, mind racing through deadlines. He was standing near the doorway, holding his cup of tea, watching me tie my shoes.
“You’re always rushing,” he said with a soft smile.
“And you’re always observing,” I replied, half-laughing.
There were things I wanted to say right then. I wanted to thank him for the way he never gave up on me during my rebellious years. I wanted to apologize for the sharp words I had thrown at him when I was younger, words fueled by pride and immaturity. I wanted to tell him that I understood now—the sacrifices, the silent worries, the late nights he spent working just to give us a comfortable life.
Instead, I checked the time.
“I’ll be late,” I muttered. “We’ll talk tonight.”
He nodded. “Of course. Tonight.”
But tonight never came.
The call arrived in the afternoon. An accident. Sudden. Unexpected. The kind of news that makes the world go silent for a few seconds before everything crashes in at once. I remember staring at my phone, reading the message again and again as if the words might rearrange themselves into something less painful.
They didn’t.
At the hospital, the white walls felt too bright, too clean, too cruel. I stood beside his bed, looking at a face that seemed peaceful, almost asleep. I kept waiting for his chest to rise, for his fingers to twitch, for some sign that this was a misunderstanding.
But there was only stillness.
And suddenly, the words I had saved for “later” began to scream inside me.
“I’m proud to be your son.”
“I’m sorry for not listening more.”
“Thank you for believing in me.”
“I love you.”
Four simple sentences. Words that could have been spoken in less than a minute. Words that now weighed heavier than mountains.
At the funeral, people spoke about his kindness, his honesty, his patience. They described a man I recognized but had never fully acknowledged. I realized how often we assume our loved ones know how we feel, as if affection can be silently understood without ever being expressed.
But silence is a fragile messenger.
In the weeks that followed, guilt became my constant companion. It whispered to me at night. It followed me into quiet rooms. It reminded me of every conversation I had postponed, every hug I had shortened, every “I’ll tell him tomorrow” I had carelessly spoken.
I began replaying that last morning over and over.
“You’re always rushing.”
Maybe he wasn’t just talking about my schedule. Maybe he was reminding me of something deeper—that life itself is not meant to be rushed past.
One evening, I sat alone in his old chair. The house felt emptier without his steady presence. I picked up his cup from the shelf, running my fingers along the rim. For the first time, I spoke out loud.
“I’m proud to be your son.”
My voice trembled, but I kept going.
“I’m sorry for the times I hurt you. I didn’t understand then, but I do now. And I love you. I love you more than I ever said.”
The room, of course, did not respond. There was no miracle, no echo of his voice. But something inside me shifted. The words were late—but they were no longer trapped.
That was the moment I realized something important: the tragedy was not just losing him. The tragedy was waiting.
We wait to apologize because we think there will be a better mood.
We wait to express love because we assume it’s already obvious.
We wait to show gratitude because we believe tomorrow is guaranteed.
It isn’t.
Since that day, I have tried to live differently. I call my mother more often. I tell my friends I appreciate them. I say “I’m proud of you” when I mean it. I don’t leave important feelings for later.
Because later is a fragile promise.
I still miss him. Some days, the grief arrives unexpectedly—triggered by a familiar song or the smell of tea in the morning. But alongside the sadness, there is also a lesson. A quiet but powerful one.
Speak now.
Say the difficult words.
Say the soft words.
Say the vulnerable words.
Don’t assume people can read your heart.
If I could go back to that Thursday morning, I would have paused at the door. I would have looked at him properly—not just as a father who would always be there, but as a man whose time, like mine, was limited.
I would have said, “I love you. Thank you for everything.”
And maybe he would have smiled and said, “I know.”
But even if he already knew, he deserved to hear it.
We all do.
So if there is someone in your life you’ve been meaning to call, someone you owe gratitude to, someone you love but haven’t told—don’t wait for the perfect moment.
Say the words.
Before they become the words you never got to say.
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