This Kind of Love

 Assalamualaikum wbt,

Hi!

I’ve been sitting with my thoughts, trying to sort through the emotional baggage I carry. I’m not even sure what to call it. Is it grief? Or maybe something else?

What I do know is that I need to let it out.

There’s so much anger and sadness in me, and I don’t always understand where it comes from. It builds up quietly until it feels suffocating. So maybe the best way is to start slowly, from the very beginning.

I am the youngest of nine siblings.

By the time I was born, my parents were already in their 40s. In many ways, I grew up differently from the rest. It felt quieter. More focused. Almost like I had more of their attention, especially from my father.

I think I was a happy child.

Not loud, not overly expressive. Just… content. I never felt like I was missing anything, even though we didn’t have much in terms of material things.

My father and I had a very close bond. Maybe it’s something about being the last child. He was strict when needed, but most of the time, he was gentle in his own way.

He showed love through small things.

He liked to surprise me. Sometimes he would come home with a small gift. Nothing expensive, just something he thought I would like. On his off days, he would take me out. We would go to the beach or have breakfast at a roti canai stall. Simple moments, but they never felt lacking.

Some of the things he did, I only understood much later.

There were times I would fall asleep and wake up to find a small gift beside me. I never saw him place it there. He would also kiss me while I was asleep. Quiet gestures, almost like love that didn’t need to be seen to be real.

I felt safe growing up.

Not because everything was perfect, but because emotionally, I always had enough. Maybe even more than enough.

One memory that stayed with me is about a bicycle.

At that time, I was the only one among my friends who walked to school. Most of them had bicycles, and nice ones too. I never asked my father for one. I knew things weren’t easy for him.

Then one day, he bought me one.

It was a simple bicycle, not like the others. But I remember feeling so happy. Not because it was new, but because I understood what it meant. I knew he must have thought about it, planned for it, and still chose to get it for me.

That made it everything.

Looking back now, I realise something I didn’t question back then.

I grew up feeling loved without ever needing to ask for it. It was already there, in the small things, in the quiet moments, in the way he showed up.

Life, to me at that time, felt simple. Safe. Whole.

I didn’t know that this feeling wouldn’t last forever.