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Hardeep Singh Kohli

d

A simple letter placed at the end of a twelve syllable text message. Ordinarily an innocuous occurrence, particularly if the sender was Daljit, Daphne or Domnic.

d

But this was no sign off, far from innocuous. This was an occurrence. There was no Daljit, no Daphne, no Dominic. This was a text from a son. To his father. My son. His dad; d.

d

It hadn't been easy for either of us in the wake of the split, the subsequent divorce. I had been his hero, his friend, his dad. And his hero, his friend, his dad, d had let him down.

d

Anger, outrage, hurt, pain, disbelief filled the vacuum once owned only by love. A teenage boy propelled prematurely into manhood, now lost in a life he once knew so well.

d

Silence suffocated. I mistook his helplessness for hate, his disappointment for disdain. No calls, no emails, no messages. Nothing. Fulsome feast had fallen into fully fledge famine.

d

Then? Anger abated. Outrage ousted. Hurt healed. Pain pacified. Disbelief dispelled. Seven summers soothed. Time tempered the torment. A new normal initiated. Future unfurled.

d

That single letter liberated me. That single letter signalled such significance. That single letter made a grown man cry. A grown man and a father. This father. Dad.

d  

 

Hardeep Singh Kohli is a writer and comedian from Glasgow.

 

 

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