I had often hated acting on first impulse but I felt like I now understood , it helps to make drastic decisions that might mean well for you even if they don't at first appear so.
My bags were packed and I did not think about having second thoughts because this flight is what I wanted — right?
This has been my life's dream ever since five years ago , my father was all that occupied my thoughts and my visit was always envisioned to be a permanent company to him. His vibrant figure was all that made me strive to get money by getting in on small jobs , all for a ticket I knew was going to change my mind and my world but the risk was worth it — the old man was worth it.
I couldn't get cold feet at the moment of departure , this was a personal decision and it was made with the intention to act on it.
My sanity and my emotional wellbeing depended on this one way journey , my regrets could now be quenched and I will no longer mourn for a past never rewritten.
I was okay and I needed to tell myself that I was okay with this decision because I was the one who made it , I was convinced but convincing was not everything as I needed my own validation to get out of this cramped box.
In the middle of my thoughts I heard the sound of hurried footsteps either towards my room or my sister's , but rarely did anyone knock on my door or even spoke to me after my last outburst.
My outburst even today in my mind is still acceptable as pride can not be overcome by the standards introduced by strangers.
Though ... out of my reverie I clearly saw that the shadow that should've went past my bedroom halted before my door , it was not exceptional but rather surprising after a long time in like — ever.
I walked over to open the door only to find my little sister who didn't look so little anymore with her being halfway past her puberty stage , she was the joy of the family — the family that replaced my own.
It was jolly only when I was not there , I should've considered it sad but I felt it to be more in my good books since if no one dared to come into my space I would have to bother them at all.
My mother's family had expanded from a family of three to a family of seven with only four out of seven children being her own and the others — my sister's step siblings that I couldn't bring myself to deal with during my time here.
The new ones from my mother were Elsa and Thami christened Isaac who were as troublesome as little puppies on a venture to a new world , one that did not know them .
At any rate , I had nothing against anyone in this family — not even Hendricks.
Life here was easily passing but the moments never fleeting , a family should've been mine and one that I couldn't protect and now seeing her here — my sister made me to turn suddenly cold at the instant smile she gave away.
However she did not take it seriously since it was my everyday usual expression , one that chased every family member away except for her.
"Hello." , her merry go voice.
Dad loved it so much that he often bragged about her to his friends and shunned me — his proud son , she was the glory and light of a vibrant family that without warning turned to plight ... and in the end I realised that I was the one in the plight and not them.
Whatever it is that happened to him they did not know and whatever message the mysterious officer came with they did not hear , I was the bearer of the news that somewhat brought a smile to her face and 'her's' too — how laughable.
Or was I a bit disillusioned? , not being content with my life and wanting in another life that I did not have? But at what point ...? ... at what point did he stop caring for them when they were mourning for him , I can't even call it mourning anymore but an ephemeral condition set on beliefs that the system has carried for who knows how long.
An ephemeral condition set on the belief that happiness comes first? , at which junction did happiness start to become a standard living ... because they lied to Hendricks and to themselves and they can't extricate themselves from this happiness that has gone after them instead.
How sad of a life they have led throughout all these years telling lies to convince themselves of a good life , a good life did not come out of money — nor from rehearsed smiles at dinner tables or gifts passed around birthdays with fake sentiments wrapped in glossy paper. I knew this because I had lived both — the silence of an empty home and the noise of a full one with no space for me.
She looked at me again, blinking once as if she could sense the thoughts crawling through my skull, but she said nothing. That was the thing with her — she never said much when it truly mattered, yet she was always the only one who showed up.
"I heard you're leaving tonight," she whispered, clutching a folded note in her hand. "You didn't tell me."
I looked at the note, then at her. "Was I supposed to?"
She didn't flinch, just nodded as though she deserved that response — or had expected worse. Then, like someone who knew how to speak without making sound, she pressed the paper into my palm and turned to leave, her footsteps quieter than the first time. Once more , I wished they would scurry away like they did when another abode appeared.
The note was torn from the edge of an old workbook, her neat handwriting barely filling the page. It only said:
> "I know I can't go with you. But if you ever find Dad, tell him I still play the piano. And I still wait."
I folded the paper slowly, like it was glass, like if I closed it too fast the words would disappear. And somehow, in all the noise of my rage and resolve, I felt something I hadn't in a long while — the ache of being missed before I was even gone.
And as I zipped up my final bag, I didn't check for weight or essentials. The decision had already been made. I was going.
But this time, I was carrying more than just what fit in a suitcase. I was carrying a hope — mine and mine alone. And maybe, just maybe, a part of me that I thought I'd buried with goodbye.
I carried her note in my back pocket like a memory I couldn't fold twice. And as I stepped out of the room, the hallway seemed tighter than usual — as if the walls had drawn closer over time, whispering secrets I wasn't meant to forget.
The lights were dim, but the house was stirring.
I was halfway through the living room when I saw her — my mother — standing by the archway near the front door, as if she'd been waiting all night.
Her robe hung loose on her shoulders, and her face was unreadable — not hardened, not softened. Just still. Like someone who had grown used to letting things pass through her fingers.
"You're really going?" she asked, her voice low and without anger. It came out like breath. Like she'd spoken the words before — to herself, in silence.
I didn't slow down. "Yes."
She nodded faintly, then stepped aside, as though making room for something she couldn't stop. "You look like him," she said, eyes lingering on the edges of my face. "At least, how I remember him."
That stopped me — not in movement, but inside.
"He's not dead," I said. "You talk like he is."
"I don't know what he is anymore," she replied softly. "But he's not the man I married."
I turned toward her, not out of defiance — just clarity. "He didn't choose this. He went to war. He came back blind. Crippled. And you—"
"I let him go," she whispered, her gaze falling to the floor. "Because he wasn't the same. He wasn't ... whole. And I didn't know how to love what was left."
I honestly wanted to laugh , but somehow ... my throat had dried out.
She looked up again, and for the first time in years, there was something human in her face. Not guilt. Not sorrow. Just quiet truth. "You're the only one who still lives that life. The only one who still remembers him like he's still part of this family."
I said nothing. There was nothing to say. She knew what she'd done. And so did I.
"You'll find him?" she asked.
"I already did."
She blinked, lips parting slightly. But no more words came. She stepped back, giving me a clear path to the door. No hug. No tears.
She didn't offer either. And I didn't ask.
I stepped outside, the air crisp and indifferent. The car was already waiting. I placed my bag in the back seat and closed the door behind me like it was never meant to reopen.
And I didn't look back. I didn't need to. That house hadn't been home in a long time.
Now, my home was a half-forgotten man across the world — a man who probably still remembered me even when the world tried to forget him.
And I would not forget. Not him. Not the cost. Not the silence he was left in.
As the car slipped quietly through the streets toward O. R. Tambo International Airport, I sat still, a single truth beating in my chest:
He was still my father. And I was still his son.
No matter who else had let go.