Day 10
343 Words
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*Dear Dad,*
It’s Ayo again.
Ten days. Ten letters. And somehow, it still feels like I’m writing into silence — yet also like you’re reading every word before I even finish writing it. Strange, right?
Today, I sat alone on the wooden bench behind the house — the same one you used to sit on when you couldn’t sleep. I used to think you were just tired. Now I know… you were carrying more than you ever showed us. I wish I’d asked you more. Sat with you longer. Just… listened.
You always hid your pain behind laughter. You smiled even when we had nothing. You told me stories instead of complaints, and faith instead of fear. But now, when the silence creeps in, I understand the weight behind your quiet eyes.
I miss the strength in your hands. Not just how they worked — fixing broken chairs, patching torn sandals, wiping my tears — but how they made me feel safe in a world I didn’t yet understand. No one talks about how hands can carry a whole household. Yours did.
Today, I wanted to talk to you about my dreams. I know you’d want to hear them. I’m thinking of going after something bold — something bigger than I’ve ever tried. You once told me not to shrink for the comfort of others. I carry that like a flame now. And when I doubt myself, I think of how you looked at me — like I was meant for more.
Sometimes, I wonder where you’d be sitting if you were still here. Would you be that old man at the corner store giving unsolicited advice to kids with sagging trousers? Would you still pray over my head before I left the house?
You’d probably scold me for staying up late to write this.
But I know you’d read it.
Dad, I’m still finding pieces of you in who I’m becoming.
And I hope — somehow — you’re proud of the man I’m trying to be.
Love always,
*Your son, Ayo*
- Writer
