Chapter Two: The Shadow of My Father
Everything changed after my father's death.
He was never truly present in our lives—not because he didn't want to be, but because his work kept him away most of the time.
He worked on cargo ships, transporting goods across seas—or at least, that's what we were told. I never knew much about the details of his job. He wasn't the kind of man who spoke much about himself. Yet, whenever he was with us, his presence was undeniable—not in words, but in his gaze, his touch, the way he sat with us as if trying to compress months of absence into a few brief moments.
He was different from other fathers. Neither strict nor lenient, but he carried that quiet authority—a silence that spoke of inner storms he never allowed to escape.
Perhaps I inherited that from him: a silence that wasn't emptiness, but rather observation, fullness, thoughts that didn't need to be spoken to be understood.
When he returned from his voyages, he would bring us simple gifts. They weren't what mattered, though. It was the scent of the sea clinging to them, the stories that came with them.
I remember one gift clearly—a worn-out book on the history of civilizations. Its pages were filled with maps, drawings, and tales that lit a fire inside me. That day, I sat with him for hours, listening to his explanations. His eyes shone with an unusual excitement, as though he wasn't simply giving me information, but opening a window to something larger—something he wanted me to see.
My father wasn't always with us, but the moments we shared were enough to leave a mark. Sometimes it doesn't take years to feel close to someone. A single genuine moment can carve itself into your soul forever.
---
But then came the news of his death.
And stranger still—it wasn't a natural death.
We were told that during one of his voyages, the ship he worked on was caught in a violent storm. He vanished without a trace. They never found his body. He was presumed drowned, swallowed by the endless sea.
At his funeral, in the hollow silence of mourning, I felt something more complicated than grief. It was a storm of emotions—anger, regret, sorrow.
I regretted not spending more time with him, not trying harder to know him. Memories flooded back—scenes from my childhood, fleeting moments I had dismissed then, but now seemed heavy with meaning. My tears wouldn't stop.
My mother, always the strong one, looked shattered that day. She stood by the empty coffin, hands trembling, eyes overflowing. She stared at the place where his body should have been, as if trying to imagine him lying there, peaceful as he used to be.
"Why did you leave us?" she whispered, her voice breaking, as though she was speaking directly to him.
---
Life after his death was survival.
One evening, as we sat around the dinner table, my mother finally spoke after a long silence. She told us she had decided to return to work.
She had once been a kindergarten teacher before leaving her job to raise us.
"We can't go on like this," she said firmly. "I need to work—for all of us."
It wasn't easy for her. She carried guilt at leaving us for hours each day, but necessity left her no choice. Her eyes glistened as she spoke, though she forced herself to stay strong.
"We'll be fine, Mom," I told her, though the words were empty comfort.
---
My older brother, Ahmed, only eighteen, shouldered more than his years could bear. He worked at a small auto-repair shop after school, contributing to the family's expenses.
I saw the exhaustion in his eyes, but he never complained. He was trying to become the man we had lost, though I knew the weight was crushing him.
One night, I found him staring at our father's photo, tears silently sliding down his cheeks.
"I wish I knew how to be like him," he whispered.
I said nothing. I simply placed my hand on his shoulder, offering strength I didn't really have.
---
My sister, Sarah, nineteen at the time, tried to be our mother's support. But she too suffered from the loss of the man who once protected and guided her.
She buried herself in her studies, trying to prove she could succeed despite everything. Yet I often caught the fear in her eyes when we spoke about the future.
"What if we can't make it?" she asked me once, her voice trembling.
I lied with reassurances I barely believed. The truth was—we were all sinking under the weight of uncertainty.
---
Two months after my father's death, an email changed everything.
Attached to it were unpaid invoices, all in his name.
But these weren't ordinary bills. They weren't for bank loans or household expenses. They were debts for rare purchases—ancient manuscripts, old relics, priceless artifacts.
It was then I began to understand the truth hidden beneath my father's silence. My mother once described him as "a man of many secrets."
Now, I knew she was right.
---
I couldn't tell my family. How could I burden them with this? How could I tarnish their memory of him with such a revelation?
No, this was mine to carry.
I worked relentlessly, juggling odd jobs, pushing my body to its limits, until after a year and a half of sacrifice, I finally managed to pay off his debts.
---
And during that time, I met someone who changed the course of my life: Fouad.
He was the kind of person whose smile never faded, even under life's weight. Like me, he carried his struggles quietly—but unlike me, he refused to let them drown him.
Orphaned, Fouad supported his younger sister alone, working multiple jobs. Yet he always had a joke ready, always a spark of hope.
We later discovered we had studied at the same university, though never met. Perhaps because I had been too busy surviving, while he had been searching for escape.
We became friends quickly. Fouad was unforgettable—always reminding me that life still had something to offer, even in the darkest times.
---
Fouad often spoke of leaving. Not out of adventure, but out of necessity.
"There's no future here, Yusuf," he would say. "We have to look elsewhere."
At first, I dismissed his words. My problems chained me down. I couldn't imagine leaving my family.
But after graduating—and being rejected from job after job with the same empty excuse, "We're looking for someone with more experience"—his words began to sink in.
How could I gain experience if no one gave me a chance?
---
One evening, we sat at a crowded café. Voices blended with the clinking of spoons against glasses.
Fouad leaned across the table, his eyes serious.
"Yusuf," he said, "why don't you come with me?"
I froze, my spoon hovering above my cup.
"What?"
"Migration, my friend. You have a degree, you're smart, you have everything—but here? Here, we're just waiting for nothing."
I sipped my coffee. It tasted more bitter than usual. His words echoed in my head.
"Do you think it's that easy?" I asked. "Just pack our bags and go?"
He smiled faintly, but his tone was firm. "Of course it's not easy. But staying here—waiting for a miracle that will never come—is harder."
I stared into my cup, as if the dark liquid might hold an answer.
He wasn't the first to mention migration, but something was different this time. For the first time, I was actually considering it.
"But I can't leave my mother and siblings," I whispered.
"Can you support them here?" he asked softly. "Do you really see a future for yourself here?"
His words struck me like a quiet slap—painful because they were true.
I ran a hand through my hair and looked at him.
"How would we even do it?"
Fouad's lips curved into a smile, as though he'd been waiting for that question all along.
"I have contacts," he said. "There's a way. It won't be easy, but it's possible."
I hesitated, the café's noise fading around me.
Finally, I nodded. "I'm in."
Fouad grinned, slamming his fist lightly against the table.
"That's the spirit! One day, you'll remember this moment."
I looked past him, through the window at the crowded street outside.
And for the first time, I wondered if my path might truly lead somewhere else.