The slow Fading,
Father,
The nights are longer now. The air carries a dampness that settles deep in my lungs, and sometimes I wake with the taste of salt on my tongue, as if the sea has crept into me. The nurses move like ghosts through the corridors, their shoes whispering against the tiled floor. Even the machines have learned to hum softly, as though they, too, have grown weary of reminding me that I am still here.
I have made peace with the quiet. It no longer frightens me. There was a time I filled silence with noise, music, letters, conversation—anything to drown the echo of what I lost. But I've learned that silence is not absence; it is a language the dying understand. It tells you when to let go.
My body is small now, fragile as parchment. The doctors say little, but I can read truth in their eyes. One of them, a young woman named Margot, sits with me during her night shifts. She reminds me of Daniel, my brother—the same gentleness, the same careful hands. Sometimes she braids my hair or reads poetry aloud. She doesn't know my story; she only knows my name and that I'm fond of jasmine tea. That's enough.
There's a peculiar freedom in being near the end, Father. You stop pretending. You stop performing strength for others. You no longer measure yourself by what could have been. Instead, you begin to see the small mercies that once hid in plain sight: the warmth of a hand, the smell of bread at dawn, the sunbeam that lands across your blanket like a promise.
I think often of Emmanuel. His laughter still drifts through my dreams. Some nights I feel his presence at the foot of my bed. He doesn't speak; he only watches, as if keeping vigil. I used to beg him to take me with him, but now I understand why he stays silent. Love doesn't demand; it waits.
I've been writing letters again—one for each person I have loved, and one for you. You will receive yours last. Not out of cruelty, but because I wanted it to be complete. For so long, I chased your voice in other men, other gods, other dreams. Now I know that forgiveness isn't something one receives—it's something one decides to give.
Father, I forgive you.
Not because you asked, but because I can no longer carry the weight of not forgiving. The anger has rotted into sorrow, and the sorrow has softened into understanding. You did what you knew. You loved in the only language you were taught, and though that love wounded me, it also shaped the woman I became. You gave me strength even when you meant to give control.
Do you remember the day I left? The morning sun had barely risen, and the compound smelled of dust and mango leaves. Mother stood behind the window, her face pressed against the glass. You didn't come out. You sent your driver to hand me the envelope—my passport, a small allowance, and a single line written in your handwriting: Do not embarrass us.
I carried that line with me for years, like a curse. Every success, every failure, every heartbreak. I measured them against those words. It took me half a lifetime to realize that you were not warning me. You were pleading. You feared the world would treat me the way it treated you harshly, without mercy. You feared the same fire that forged you might destroy me.
Perhaps it did. But it also refined me.
I've come to see that love is rarely pure. It arrives carrying its own ruins. You taught me that by accident. And for that, I am grateful.
The doctors tell me there are treatments left to try. I smile and nod, but I've already chosen my peace. I no longer wish to prolong this fragile state between being and leaving. The body knows when it's time; the spirit only needs permission to follow.
I give it now.
Still, I wish I could see home one last time—the crooked tamarind tree by the gate, the red dust rising after rain, the way Mother used to hum when she cooked. I wonder if the house still smells of her perfume, or if you had it painted over, layer by layer, to erase her presence.
If you ever walk past my old room, pause for a moment. Don't think of the arguments or the silence that grew between us. Think of the laughter that came before. Think of the child who once held your hand in the market, who believed you could fix anything. That child never stopped loving you, Father. She only learned to do it from afar.
I have one request. When they send you my belongings, keep the photograph of Emmanuel. The one where he's holding the camera and I'm out of focus behind him. It's not a perfect picture, but it's real. And maybe, in some small way, it captures the truth of all of us—blurred, searching, half-finished, yet somehow still beautiful.
Tonight, I will sleep early. Margot promised to leave the window open so I can hear the sea. It sounds different now, softer, almost kind. I like to think it remembers me.
If I wake again, I'll write more. If I don't, let this be enough.
Your daughter,
Who learned to love after all.