A silent ‘happy birthday’

Birthdays are markers of time, moments for reflection, celebration and often, humble displays of the small gestures that remind us we are seen. As a child, I basked in the simplicity of my birthdays – the cakes my mother brought, the laughter shared with friends, the warmth of family gathered around me. But as the years passed, something faded into the background – a silence that grew louder as I grew older.

My father never once said, “Happy birthday.”

It’s strange, isn’t it? We grow up believing that parents should be the first to celebrate us, that birthdays are when they pour into us all the love and pride they hold in their hearts. But at home, my father was always the silent figure – working hard, providing, yet standing on the periphery of our lives – present but distant, like a character written into the script but never given lines.

There were no birthday wishes from him, no carefully wrapped presents. It was always my mother who made the effort to mark the day, throwing small parties and buying gifts in my early years. But even that stopped when I reached elementary school. His absence of acknowledgment wasn’t something I noticed immediately; it was a gradual realization that settled in, year after year.

Could it be that he didn’t know when my birthday was? That thought stings, but I may never know for sure. My father was never the type to track sentimental moments. He left the emotional labor to my mother, stepping in only for discipline – and even then, it was often at her insistence. His hands were always busy with work, not the tender duties of fatherhood.

Yet, looking back, I realize his silence wasn’t entirely void of care. He was always there, in his own way. Every day in elementary school, he fetched me from class without fail, waiting outside the gates with quiet patience. On weekends, if I had practice, he would be my driver, shuttling me back and forth as if it were his personal mission to ensure I never missed a moment. His love wasn’t verbal – it was in the engine of our old car, in the tires that wore down from countless trips to and from school.

Have you ever wondered if silence could hold love? I often do. His silence could easily be