Day 6: The Empty Seat
1277 Words
---
*Day 6: The Empty Seat*
Dear Dad,
Today wasn’t supposed to be any different. I got up, brushed my teeth, wore that faded red hoodie you bought me when I turned twelve—it still fits, sort of. I walked out into the world like I do every day, pretending things are normal. But they’re not. They haven’t been since you left.
This morning at school, our literature teacher asked us to write a short essay titled *“My Hero”*. Some kids wrote about footballers, movie stars, or even anime characters. But I couldn’t even pick up my pen for a while. My hands just rested on the desk, still, as if they were waiting for permission from somewhere deep inside me to start writing.
When I finally started, I wrote about you.
I wrote about how you never missed a single parent-teacher meeting. How you always stayed up late helping me build science projects even when you were dead tired from work. How you once rode your old motorbike through the rain to bring me the lunch I forgot at home.
I wrote about the way you’d kneel when talking to me, even when I was already taller than you—like you wanted to see the world from my eyes.
My classmates read their essays out loud. The room was full of laughter and stories. When it was my turn, my throat tightened. I couldn’t read the whole thing. I just said, *“My hero was my father. He’s no longer here, but he never really left.”*
Everyone clapped politely. Some eyes softened. A few looked down, unsure what to do with my truth.
Dad, why does it feel like no one knows what to say to someone who’s grieving? They just change the subject. They say *“stay strong”* like it’s some kind of spell that will make the pain vanish. But I’m tired of staying strong. I just want to be seen. I want someone to ask *what kind of man he was*, not just *how I’m coping*.
You once told me that pain is love with nowhere to go. I never understood that until now. I have so much of it, so much love with no direction. These letters… I guess this is how I send it somewhere. To you. To heaven. Or wherever you are.
---
*Day 6: The Empty Seat (Part 2)*
Dear Dad (continued),
After school, I walked past the bus stop and took the long way home. I didn’t feel like being around anyone. I passed that old bench near the library — the one where we used to sit and feed birds. It's still there, chipped and faded, like it's aging with me. I sat for a while, hoping I’d feel your presence in the silence.
It hit me, Dad. There’s an empty seat in every place we used to go together. Not just physically, but in my heart.
There’s an empty seat at the dining table, even though Mom still sets your place every now and then. I think she thinks I don’t notice — but I do. She clears it quickly, as if she remembered you're not coming back.
There’s an empty seat at the football field, where you used to cheer the loudest, even if I missed every shot. And there's one at my desk when I study late, waiting for your quiet knock and the cocoa you used to bring.
But the most painful empty seat is the one in my dreams. I used to dream about us going fishing, or laughing in the car, or you telling me stories about your wild teenage years. Now, when I close my eyes, it’s mostly silence.
I miss your advice, your voice, even your bad jokes. I miss how your hugs felt like shields. You didn’t have to say much — just being there was enough to make the world feel less scary.
---
*Day 6: The Empty Seat (Part 3)*
*From Ayo, to Dad*
Dear Dad,
Tonight, after writing the last part of this letter, I sat on my bed staring at the ceiling. There’s this c***k in the corner that looks like lightning. I used to tell you it looked like a river. You’d laugh and say it was just the house settling, but I always imagined it was a map to some secret place, a place where lost things go — like missing socks, lost time, and maybe even lost fathers.
I thought about that today. Where do you go when you leave this world? Are you still here? Watching? Listening? Or are you somewhere far, in a place too beautiful or too quiet for us to understand?
I have so many questions. And you were always the one with the answers.
There’s this boy in class — David. His dad still walks him to school. I saw them this morning, laughing at something. For a second, I felt angry. I wanted to shout, “You don’t know how lucky you are.” But then I realized that wouldn’t change anything. His dad didn’t take mine away.
It’s strange, how grief feels like envy one moment, then guilt the next.
But here’s something I want you to know, Dad — I’m not ashamed of missing you. I’m not afraid to talk to you, even if it’s through pages and ink. These letters are more than words; they’re pieces of my soul I refuse to lose.
I read something today in a book Miss Amina gave me. It said, *“Grief is just love with no place to go.”* But I think they’re wrong. My love still has somewhere to go. It’s going to you, through every word, every sigh, every silent tear that falls when no one’s looking.
---
*Day 6: The Empty Seat (Part 4)*
*From Ayo, to Dad*
Dear Dad,
Tonight, the moon is full again. It’s the kind of moon you used to say was “too bright to ignore,” the kind that pulled secrets out of people. I remember once, we sat on the roof and you told me that the moon sees everything, even the things people hide. I never forgot that.
I think the moon saw me cry today.
I went to the backyard alone, just to breathe, but your chair was still there — the wooden one with the one wobbly leg. I sat in it. It creaked, groaned like it missed you. And suddenly, the silence screamed.
I told myself I wouldn’t cry today. I tried to be strong. But I couldn’t. Not when your scent still clings faintly to the cushion, not when the rust on your old toolbox still catches the sun the same way.
I guess some things remain, even when people don’t.
Dad, sometimes I feel like I’m losing little pieces of you. Like your voice — I can’t remember it clearly anymore. Or the way you used to hum that tune when making tea. I try hard to hold onto it, but memory fades when the world keeps pushing forward.
I don’t want to forget.
That’s why I write.
Because if I can’t remember everything, maybe these words will.
And someday, maybe someone — my children, or strangers — will read these letters and know you the way I did. They’ll know that you were brave, and patient, and that your laughter could chase away storms.
I want to carry you forward, even if it means carrying grief with me.
This is how I keep you alive.
More soon, Dad. I love you.
—Ayo
- Writer
