Bittersweet

I couldn't remember a time when I spoke well with my father. But I decided, when I was told that he was leaving his job and returning back home after 23 long years, that I'll have wonderful moments with him. Everything I'd been missing all these years. My brother was 5 when he left to Sharjah. And I wasn't born yet. My family wasn't financially stable and this forced my father to separate from his own family. My mother was having a rough time too. They visited dad once or twice a year. And after not so long, I was born. Sharjah was my birthplace and once I was ready to travel, they brought me back to Kerala. I remember my father visiting home and trying to make conversations with me. But I was too young and I just stayed quiet because I was shy. He'd give me chocolates and I'd let him play with me. And then we would get along. But this happened every year he returned to stay back for merely one or two weeks. Later on, I got used to it. I got used to living without him. Or maybe it didn't seem difficult because of my brother. He was more like a father to me and he was so good. It's probably because of this, that I didn't get along with my father. I just couldn't settle with him. Every time he'd say something, I would get angry and it was the same with him too. Over time this continued to get bigger. But he loved me and I loved him back, no matter what he did or what he said. I knew that and I didn't care about anything else, nor did he. One day, we got into a huge fight. Things happened that shouldn't have happened. And we both said some things that shouldn't have been said. It got worse and worse. The day seemed longer than usual. Although I felt miserable the next day and wanted to apologize for everything wrong on my part, I didn't have the nerve to face or talk to him. The silent treatment went on for one more day. But later that night, my mother asked me to break the ice and sort things out with him. I went to him, shivering. Not with fear or anger, but with guilt and shame. He was lying there, asleep. He looked weak and sad, even in his sleep. I called out to him and he suddenly woke up hearing me; but didn't look back or respond. I started weeping. He realized I was crying and suddenly got up and hugged me. And asked me not to cry. He held me tight and kept saying "It's okay". I knew it wasn't. But the harm was done. There was nothing I could do to undo that. He said "I am the one who's wrong. I am the one to apologize. You should stop crying." Maybe it was his fault, whatever it is that he said or did. But that was no justification to my doing. Hurting the person, without whom I couldn't have been here. This wasn't our last fight though. There came bigger fights later on. Those were the only times I saw him cry. Those were the only times I saw him fall weak. Those were the only times I saw him breakdown. I haven't seen him cry for anyone. Not my mother, nor my brother. It didn't mean that they didn't matter to him. We had this weird, special relationship. Every time we console each other after a fight, we know that this will happen again. But we also know that we'll always love each other. Always. It's just bittersweet.