For most of her life, Meera believed her father never really understood her.
They’d lived under the same roof for 27 years, yet he always felt distant—strict, silent, maybe even cold. He never said “I love you,” never hugged her unless someone told him to, never asked how her day went. So, when he passed away from a heart attack three years ago, Meera mourned with guilt more than grief.
She felt bad for not crying enough. Bad for not missing him too deeply. Just… bad.
But on a random, rainy July afternoon, everything shifted.
It started when Amma called her.
“Meera, your father’s old trunk—found it under the attic. The wood is rotting. Come see if anything worth keeping is inside before I throw it.”
Meera sighed. She was already tired from work, stuck in Bangalore traffic, and now this. But something about her mother’s voice felt off—like a soft tug at her heart.
Two days later, she took the train back to her hometown in Kerala. The house, full of monsoon dampness and old memories, smelled of turmeric, books, and rain. The familiar chaos.
The trunk was under the attic staircase, coated in dust. Rusty hinges. She opened it slowly.
Books. His khaki diary. Some old wristwatches that didn’t tick anymore. And then, beneath a faded shawl—a bundle of letters.
Yellowed. Tied together with red thread.
To her shock, every letter was addressed to her.
“To my Meera — when she turns 10.”
“To Meera on her first heartbreak.”
“To Meera on the day she becomes a mother.”
Some had dates. Some didn’t. None had ever been sent.
Her throat tightened.
She opened the first one.
Dear Meera,
You are 10 today. I saw you blow out candles and demand five extra chocolates. You wore that pink frock with such stubborn pride. I wanted to hug you but didn’t know how. My father never hugged me, so I don’t know how these things are done. But in my heart, Meera, I hugged you a thousand times today.
I worry you’ll grow up and think I’m just a strict man. But I’m only strict because I’m scared. Scared the world will break you. I want you strong. I hope you’ll forgive me someday.
She blinked. Her hands trembled. She turned the page.
Meera,
I saw you cry today in the terrace. I knew it wasn’t about the lost tiffin box. Something else happened. Maybe someone teased you. Or a friend betrayed you. I wanted to ask, but you wiped your face and said nothing. I stood near the door for ten minutes before walking away. Not because I didn’t care—but because I didn’t want to say the wrong thing.
Tears dropped onto the paper.
She read ten more that night.
Letters about her first day at college—how proud he felt watching her wear that blue salwar and catch the bus alone. Letters about the time she failed in maths—how he wanted to tell her it was okay but instead shouted, afraid she’d think failing was acceptable. Letters about the time she didn’t talk to him for days after a fight—and how he sat outside her door with a cup of tea he never gave her.
There were even future letters—one addressed for her wedding day. One titled “When Amma isn’t there anymore.” And one letter that simply said:
“Open when you miss me. Truly miss me.”
She clutched that one. But didn’t open it yet.
Meera didn’t sleep that night.
She walked through every memory of him. His silence. His stern gaze. The rules. The lack of warmth.
But now, she saw them differently.
His silence? It wasn’t emptiness. It was fear.
His rules? Not punishment. Protection.
His sternness? A cracked form of love he didn’t know how to show.
The next morning, she found Amma sitting in the kitchen, stirring sambar.
“I read the letters,” Meera whispered.
Amma looked up, surprised. “He wrote them?”
“You knew?”
“I knew he wrote… something. But he never showed them to me. Said they were between him and his daughter.”
They sat in silence. Only the splatter of curry leaves in hot oil broke it.
Later that evening, Meera walked to his old study. Lit a lamp. And finally opened the last letter.
My dear Meera,
If you’re reading this, I’m probably gone. I don’t know if I was a good father. I know I didn’t say enough. I know I was harsh. I know I watched you walk away too many times when I should’ve called you back.
But know this: I saw you. Every version of you. And I loved each one.
I’m proud of you. And wherever I am, I’m still cheering for you.
Love,
Appa
She broke.
Her chest heaved with the ache of love never understood, now arriving too late. But also… maybe not too late. Maybe love has no expiry. Maybe realisation, though delayed, still matters.
That evening, Meera didn’t cry like a child. She cried like a woman finally seen. A daughter finally understood.
She kept the letters in a box beside her bed now.
And every time life felt hard, she opened one.
And Appa spoke again.