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The sky is filled with stars, visible from the ground, making it seem as if we could reach out and touch them. But can we? Not until we are allowed to. Not until we dare to.
Dear Diary,
Once again, my uncles made a snide remark about my family. Their words cut deep, leaving a lingering ache in my chest. "You're going out? Do you even realize you don’t have a father anymore?" The moment those heartless words reached my ears, I saw my mother’s eyes fill with silent pain—tears she had trained herself not to shed.
Being a woman in this world has never been easy. We are rarely acknowledged unless a man stands beside us. I used to wonder why women fought so hard for rights, why they demanded a voice, until I experienced the harsh reality of patriarchy—it was never fair, never kind. I had lived in the illusion of freedom, unaware that it had only existed because he was there. My father. The man who made sure we never had to ask for permission to exist. But now, without him, everything feels like it’s slipping away.
Memories fade, but the weight of being fatherless remains. I have come to resent it—not just the whispers, but the way even our own family disregards me and my mother. Their words drip with pity, but their actions reek of control.
My father was a man who believed in dreams. He encouraged us to see beyond limitations, to reach for the impossible. "Go for it, I know you can do it," he would say with pride in his voice. But now that he’s gone, it’s as if the world has placed an invisible chain around us.
Without him, we are no longer individuals. We are widow and fatherless daughter. Labels that come with rules we never agreed to.
To step outside? I must seek my uncle’s approval.
To wear what I want? The family must nod in agreement.
Even if my mother allows me something, it doesn’t matter—because she doesn’t matter anymore.
I see it every day. The way my family treats my mother as if she is fragile, not out of care, but out of tradition. "A widow must behave a certain way." They refused to let her work because "What will people say?" She must dedicate her life to raising me, ensuring I don’t become a bad example.
The burden is heavier than grief itself.
I remember how, just days after my father’s death, whispers filled the house—cold, calculated words disguised as concern. "Seeing a widow’s face first thing in the morning is bad luck."
"She is no longer a wife; she shouldn’t be doing certain things anymore."
Remark after remark, suffocating me and my mother in a world that refuses to see us as anything more than remnants of a man who once existed. I miss my father—not just because he was my father, but because he was a man who saw us, who valued us, who never let society dictate what we could or couldn’t do.
Without him, I see the world for what it is—a place where women must ask permission to breathe freely. A place where the sky, the stars, and the dreams we once had are no longer ours to reach.
I put my pen down. My grip tightens around it, as if holding onto something that keeps me grounded. The ink has stopped flowing, and so have my tears.
My mind is clouded with questions I will never have answers to.
Why did he leave?
Why can’t every man be like him?
Why must we, as women, ask to exist?
Why do we need their approval to live our lives?
The silence is deafening.
This is my thousandth letter to my father. But this time, the ink is not blue. Not black.
It is red.