My father wasn’t the type to utter “I love you”, yet every morning, before I set off to work, I made sure my window was firmly shut.

My father seldom spoke the words “I love you.”
Yet each morning before work, he’d silently check that my window was securely shut.
Leaving early with his lunchbox, he’d place a glass of milk on the table.
I pretended to sleep, never saying goodbye, but listened for his footsteps fading softly away.
He never asked about my grades, but fresh notebooks appeared before each term ended.
No spoken pride, but I caught his smile at my diploma when he thought I wasn’t watching.
As a child, I mistook love for declarations and embraces.
Time taught me some hearts speak through calloused hands and quiet gesturestiny things that cradle you forever.
Certain loves leave no echoes, yet fill every corner of a home.
**Bonus**
Years later, on an unplanned winter visit, the house felt hushed and shrunken.
At the kitchen table, his weathered hands paused as gray-streaked hair lifted in surprise.
“Had dinner?” he asked.
I grinnedthe same unspoken question lived in every notebook, every glass of milk.
That night I understood: his love was never mute.
It echoed in the steadfast roof, the warmth of walls he’d built, the meals that never wavered.
Now I speak his dialect
Not in phrases, but in simmered soups, held-open doors, in quiet acts that linger.
The softest loves resonate deepest.