The Narratives – Mohamed Miah

Mohamed Miah| The-Narratives.com

There was a time I swore I’d never be like him.

The way he sat in silence, pursed lips, eyes heavy with thoughts no one could reach.

The way his temper cracked like thunder out of nowhere.

The unpredictability. The mistakes. The moods.

The things he said that cut you so deep — sometimes without warning, sometimes without meaning to.

I was always running from becoming my father.

Not just because he was strict, or because of how he made us feel growing up…

But because I didn’t want to inherit the chaos.

He lived with bipolar disorder and schizophrenia — two unseen storms inside him.

I didn’t understand that then.

All I saw was the explosion, the imbalance, the aftermath.

So I built distance. I created boundaries. I internalised fear.

And deep down, I promised myself, “I’ll be different.”

But now…

Now that I’m older. Now that I’ve lived, loved, raised my own children, and lost pieces of myself along the way —

I see him everywhere in me.

I see him in the way I go quiet in crowds.

In how I get impulsive, how I sometimes act before I think.

In my fire when I’m angry — not as sudden as his, but just as dangerous when it builds.

In my love for writing, reading books, cameras, food, fashion, perfume.

In the way I romanticise Bangladesh, like it’s not just a country, but a longing.

In my laughter, and sometimes in my loneliness.

And yes…

In the way I look in the mirror — I look like him.

For years I thought I was escaping.

Turns out, I was just circling back to where I came from —

but this time, with understanding.

I used to think our parents were supposed to be perfect.

That being older made them wiser. That being my father made him righteous by default.

But I’ve come to realise something deeper:

Even Adam (peace be upon him) ate the forbidden fruit.

Even he slipped.

So who is my father not to?

Who are we to hold them on impossible pedestals?

My father wasn’t always right.

He wasn’t always just.

He wasn’t always well.

But he was human.

And he was my dad.

And now that he’s gone…

I wish I could go back and sit with him again.

Ask him questions instead of assuming I knew the answers.

Talk to him — not as a boy trying to protect himself,

but as a man ready to listen.

If you’re reading this and your parents are still here…

Talk to them.

Sit with them.

Ask them the things you always meant to.

Because once they’re gone, you don’t just lose their presence —

You lose the chance to make peace with the pieces of them inside you.

I no longer run from my father’s shadow.

Because in that shadow, I’ve found my own reflection —

Not to copy it…

But to heal.

May Allah forgive his shortcomings,

Raise his rank,

And accept the mercy I try to give him through every prayer, every good I do. Aameen

Because even when he couldn’t show it perfectly —

I know that he loved me.

And,

I love him back — as he was, not just who I wanted him to be.

Written for my father.

And for every son or daughter still trying to make peace with where they came from.