The image of my dad in his office remains vivid, like a photograph that never fades. I see him, a civil engineer, sitting in his favorite chair with his computer in front of him. The open window, overlooking Gjilan City Park, let sunlight pour in, breathing life into the ideas that slept in his mind. I also see myself admiring the world he had built. I saw him focused, working with passion. To me, it seemed my dad had magical powers, every idea he imagined became reality through the sketches he created. I was drawn to the way he saw the world, how every detail mattered and transformed into something magnificent.
But memories take me further — to our old apartment, where my dad wasn’t the focused engineer, but simply, my dad. It was a small place, with walls painted in warm colors. I remember how, on snowy winter nights, I would rest my head on his strong shoulder as his stories transported me to worlds of flying creatures, princesses and knights. Every morning, as he got ready for the day, we would talk about my dreams. He always imagined me as a future architect or mathematician, but he never dismissed my dreams, even when he saw that my heart belonged to letters and literature.
Pain is a journey
The morning of August 1, 2018, arrived a little differently than the others. The sun was slowly rising above the horizon, casting light on my pale face and breaking the chill of the night before. The air was still fresh as I went downstairs in my pink pajamas to greet my mom and dad. The walls of the house were quieter than ever and my heart was beating fast.
When I reached the bottom of the stairs, I saw the door to the room open. From a distance, I noticed the blue walls of the room. The color created a calm, yet sorrowful atmosphere. My dad was lying in bed, his pale face marked by exhaustion. His eyes, once full of life and energy, now looked so still. The white sheets wrapped around his body, offering him warmth and a deep, silent sleep.
My mom, with her hands folded, sat next to my dad, looking at his face. I could hear her whispers as she prayed for us. I understood what was happening, but I chose to lose myself in my illusions. In the corner where I was hiding, I saw myself walking the streets of my childhood — how happy I had been.
The path to that room felt long and heavy, as I entered, the world outside seemed distant and unfamiliar. “Why can’t Mom see me?” was the first thought that echoed in the blue room. Just then, she turned her head and our eyes met. I walked toward her as she seemed to hear only the sound of my footsteps. Across her face, pale yet divine, with a few wrinkles around her beautiful brown eyes, I saw that hope was fading.
“Erdë, I don’t know if Dad will be OK today. It’s just the two of us now.” That was the sentence that turned my world upside down. I stood there, caught between two worlds, as the pain in my chest spread through my whole body. At just 11 years old — and an only child — I felt I couldn’t allow myself to cry. I carried the weight of responsibility, even though I was still at the age of flowers and dolls.
For the last time, my eyes rested on my father’s face. He was 52 years old. His skin was textured like old paper, the wrinkles that told the story of a life that had come to an end. His lips spoke of peace, following a fierce battle with cancer. I reached out to hug him, but I could no longer hear his breathing or feel his heart beating for his family. I kissed his cold hand, and for a moment, it seemed as if he smiled at me. Even in death, he could still feel his daughter’s love.
Briefly, the large house that once held only three people was now filled with dozens of familiar and unfamiliar faces. Someone grabbed my arm, gently pulling me away from my father’s touch.
My gaze narrowed, and everything around me began to blur.
The door closed behind me, leading into the hallway, where the noise of the outside world engulfed me. People passed by — some with melancholy faces, others with tearful eyes. Some spoke to me, but everything felt foreign. Voices, glances, touches — all felt unnecessary in the shadow of my pain.
Alone, I stepped into the garden. The leaves on the trees danced in a light breeze. I looked up at the sky, the color matched the room where my father had died, breathing through the vivid memories that flooded me. In the distance, children played in a neighboring garden, their laughter ringing through the air. I felt my strength slip away as I sat down, searching for something familiar to hold on to.
Thoughts began to flow like a river. Conversations with my father, his gentle hugs, his warm touch — all moved through me. How I loved the fairy tales he used to tell. My favorite was about a girl who became a knight in a kingdom, where only boys had that privilege. It was in those memories that I realized just how lucky I had been.
At that moment, I sat alone on the bench — and finally, I could cry. Tears streamed down my face as every memory of him hit me like a wave.
The noise of people behind me brought me back to the garden, which now felt foreign and unfamiliar. I saw my father in a coffin, strangers taking him away from our home. I sat there, lost in a haze, where everything felt unclear. I don’t remember anything else from that day.
After his death, the mornings came slowly. Life felt like a lost expedition — a girl and her mother in an empty house. Each day became a challenge to find meaning in such an absurd world. The noise of daily life, the ordinary sounds of living — none of it brought me joy anymore.
But it was on a quiet winter night, as my mother and I watched a TV show in the red-walled living room, snuggled under the warmth of the fireplace, that I began to understand the way forward. It was her gentle hands, her strong heart, that guided me through the misery. Sometimes, I secretly watch her, afraid that her smile might fade.
But there was something else that helped me travel through the pain.
When I began to write, I realized that words were more powerful than I had ever imagined. Each time I put pen to paper, my pain changed form — it became a tool to give my father eternity. In those words, I discovered that every story carried something special: a deep process of healing that could help not only me, but also others who had experienced a similar loss.
I’ve found that writing connects my soul to the souls of others, reminding us that we are not alone, that we share more pain than we often dare to admit.
Feature image: Arrita Katona / K2.0.
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