The man in the portrait.! 🖼️ - by The Jotter Keeper

My dad has a portrait of himself hanging on one of the walls in our house. Mum once told me it was taken in his youthful days—when life wasn’t this serious, yet still far from a joke. I stood in front of it one day and stared. It felt like I was looking at an exact replica of myself.“The apple really doesn’t fall far from the tree,” I whispered. Mum smiled faintly and began to reminisce. She said that back then, Dad worked with foreigners. His job required him to travel frequently, often staying away for months at a time—sometimes three, sometimes six. But before every trip, he always made sure everything at home was in order. He never left without ensuring his wife and children were well provided for. Mum admitted she was both happy and sad during those times. Happy because he was working hard to provide, and sad because his absence left a quiet void in the home. Still, she had no choice. To keep food on the table, he had to go. There were days she would cry—not out of hardship or hunger, but out of love. Quiet, affectionate tears that seemed to say, “I miss you dearly, my husband. Please come back to me soon.” She never let us see that side of her. She tried to hide the tears, to stay strong for her children. But emotions have a way of revealing themselves, no matter how much we try to contain them. Communication back then was difficult and expensive, especially with him being in another country. Every call felt like a luxury. Then, one sunny Saturday, everything changed. Dad decided to surprise us. He didn’t inform anyone—not even the eldest. He simply showed up at the door, carrying bags filled with gifts. That was who he was—a loving, generous father who always made sure his family was cared for. Mum wasn’t expecting him that month. He was supposed to return the following month. The moment she saw him, she burst into tears and held him tightly, as if she never wanted to let go. Curtains draw. Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months. Yet, there was no sign of him leaving again. I was too young to question anything, too unaware to understand what was happening. Perhaps it was for the best. Later, Mum found out that the foreigners had returned to their country, and the factory had been shut down. I was reminded of this story the day I walked past his portrait again. It made me wonder—did he ever cry? Did he ever show pain? It didn’t seem like it. Maybe that’s the quiet burden men carry—the expectation to endure, to accept, and to move forward without breaking. He simply waited… until another opportunity came. ⸻ Dearest Sir, I know you are in a place far beyond our reach—a place where we cannot meet for now.But I want you to know that I miss you deeply, and you will forever remain in my heart. Thank you for your love.Thank you for your sacrifices. <blockquote>Until we meet again…</blockquote> Adieu, Papa 👴🕊️🪽🕊️

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