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By Mihar Dias March 2026
In the 1950s, in a modest Malay household like mine, love was rarely spoken. It was understood, not declared. We did not grow up hearing the words “I love you.” Not from our fathers, anyway.
I was the first boy in the family. My father never once said, “I love you, son.” Not once.
But my mother would sometimes whisper “sayang” when she tucked me into bed, or pull me into a quick embrace when I cried after falling in the yard. Those small gestures were the language of love in our home. Quiet. Brief. Almost shy.
My father’s love came in different forms.
Sometimes it arrived as a cane across the legs when I had been particularly naughty. As a child, the sting of the rotan burned for a few minutes, but strangely, it never left resentment behind. Even then, in the simple logic of childhood, I knew it was not cruelty. It was correction. In his own way, he was trying to guide a stubborn boy toward becoming a decent man.
That was how fathers loved in those days—silently, firmly, without poetry.
I grew up believing I understood that kind of love.
But the truth is this: you never truly understand a father’s love until the day you become one.
I was forty when my son was born.
Older fathers carry a strange tenderness. By that age, life has humbled you enough to know that every blessing is fragile. When the nurse placed my newborn son before me in the delivery room, I felt something open inside my chest that I had never felt before.
Then the doctor quietly told us he was born with a club foot.
In that moment the room seemed to collapse around me.
I remember standing there helplessly, staring at that tiny, perfect face while my heart shattered into a thousand pieces. Love, pity, fear, guilt — they came all at once like a storm. Tears streamed down my face uncontrollably. I did not know a grown man could cry like that.
I kept asking myself the same question again and again: What did I do wrong?
From that day on, my son rarely left my side. I carried him everywhere. To the office, to meetings, to errands around town. Sometimes in a little basket. Sometimes in a stroller. Sometimes strapped to my back like some awkward accessory to my daily suit and tie.
Colleagues must have thought I was eccentric.
But when a child needs you, the world’s opinion becomes irrelevant.
We went everywhere looking for help. Every traditional healer someone recommended. Every dukun who claimed to know a cure. Each visit began with hope and ended with quiet disappointment. As weeks passed, my heart sank deeper each time another remedy failed.
There are few things more painful for a father than feeling powerless to help his own child.
Finally the doctors said surgery was necessary. He was only three months old.
Three months.
The nights leading up to that operation were long and sleepless. My wife and I lay awake listening to the small sounds of our baby breathing beside us, both of us pretending to be brave for the other.
But inside, we were terrified.
The morning of the surgery, I remember holding his tiny hand before they wheeled him away. It was so small that my entire finger disappeared inside his grip.
And then he was gone through the swinging doors.
When the surgeon finally came out hours later and said the operation was successful, I felt something lift from my chest that had been crushing me for months. My son would walk normally, the doctor said. One foot would be slightly smaller than the other, but he would run, play, and live a full life.
I broke down again right there in the hospital corridor.
This time the tears were different.
They were tears of relief. Of gratitude. Of overwhelming love.
Looking back now, I sometimes think about my own father. The quiet man who never once said “I love you.” The man who expressed affection through discipline, responsibility, and silent sacrifice.
Only after becoming a father myself did I understand what he had been carrying all those years.
A father’s love is often hidden. It does not always speak loudly. Sometimes it disguises itself as sternness, worry, or long hours of work. Sometimes it sits silently at the edge of the room watching over everyone.
But when life tests your child, that quiet love rises like a flood.
And then you realise something profound.
Your father loved you just as fiercely.
He simply did not have the words.
Yes, you never truly understand a father’s love until you become one.
And if you are blessed with a daughter one day, you will discover that a father’s heart still has another chapter to write.
But that… is a story for another time.
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