He pulled up on a Harley with skull patches on his back and my mother’s name tattooed on his neck. Ten years gone, not a word—and now he’s revving the engine like we’re supposed to clap?
I was fourteen when he disappeared. Left for cigarettes cliché, except he left a note that just said, “I can’t do this anymore.” No phone calls. No birthday cards. My mom sold her wedding ring to cover rent that first winter. We told people he died. It was easier than explaining the nothingness.
So imagine my body locking up when this rumbling parade of leather and chrome pulled into my cousin Anika’s baby shower, of all places. I saw him through the kitchen window. Older, scruffier, but somehow cocky. He hugged a guy with a ZZ Top beard and handed a stuffed giraffe to a toddler. Like he belonged.
I couldn’t even move. My mom stood next to me, holding a tray of samosas, jaw clenched so hard her temple twitched. She hadn’t spoken his name in years.
Then he saw us. Eyes locked. He raised two fingers like a peace sign.
And like some choreographed nightmare, the entire party fell quiet—because my grandmother, who’s 83 and half-blind, said loudly: “Isn’t that Devraj? I thought he died in a boating accident?”
He walked straight toward the house. My mom dropped the tray.
He was five feet away when he said it—calm as anything.
“You need to know the truth. About everything. But first…”
“…do you mind if I change my shirt?” he asked, with a half-smile.
Like it was just another Sunday. Like ten years hadn’t passed.
My mom stared at him, lips parted, but not a single sound came out. I don’t even think she blinked. Then her eyes flicked to me. As if to ask: Is this really happening?
I didn’t say anything either. Honestly, I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to punch him or hug him or call security.
But Anika’s husband, Tarun, broke the tension. “We’re having a baby shower, man. What the hell is this?” he said, stepping in front of my dad.
Devraj looked around at all the guests, mostly family, a few friends from the temple, some neighbors. Everyone had stopped mid-bite or mid-sip. Even the toddler he gave the giraffe to was staring at him like he was a Marvel villain.
He sighed. “I didn’t mean to crash anything. I didn’t even know there was a party. I was just trying to see my family.”
“And after a decade, that just happens to be today?” my mom finally snapped, her voice slicing the silence.
He lowered his head slightly. “No. I’ve been back for two months.”
That hit like a slap.
“What do you mean back?” I asked. “Back in the city? Or just… back to Earth?”
“I’ve been living in Gokulpeth. On the edge of town,” he said. “Got a job at a garage. I’ve been trying to get the courage to come talk to you both.”
Gokulpeth was only twenty minutes away. That stung more than anything else. All those years I imagined him off in Goa or hiding out in Thailand or dead in a ditch. He’d been twenty minutes down the road, fixing carburetors and drinking chai like nothing happened?
The thing about silence is, it’s loud. Especially when it’s between people who used to mean everything to each other.
Tarun cleared his throat. “Devraj, I think you should leave. This isn’t the time.”
But my grandmother, bless her soul, stood up from her plastic lawn chair with her cane and said, “No. Let him speak. If he came all this way, he must have something to say.”
That was all the invitation he needed.
We didn’t go inside. Too many eyes. My mom told me to get her bag and we drove straight to her apartment in silence. She didn’t even ask me to follow her—I just did. Like when you’re a kid and you know your mom’s about to have a breakdown, but she’s holding it together just long enough to get behind a closed door.
An hour later, there was a knock.
She didn’t answer it. Just stared out the window, arms folded. So I opened it.
He stood there, holding an old shoe box.
Not flowers. Not chocolates. A shoebox.
He walked in quietly. Sat at the edge of the couch. The same couch he helped pick out fifteen years ago, back when life felt more like a promise and less like a cruel trick.
“I know there’s nothing I can say that will make this okay,” he started. “But I never stopped thinking about you. Either of you.”
My mom didn’t respond. But she didn’t leave the room either.
He opened the box. Inside were folded letters, some photos, and a necklace I recognized. It was my mom’s. She used to wear it to temple. I thought it had been lost.
“I tried to send letters the first year. Mailed them from Hyderabad. Then Pune. None came back. I don’t know if you moved or just never opened them.”
“We moved. A lot,” my mom said flatly.
He nodded. “I thought so. I figured you didn’t want to be found. I didn’t blame you.”
“So why now?” I asked. “Why come back now, after all this time?”
He took a breath. “Because the guy I rode with for five years—Arko—he died in a crash last winter. Mid-ride. Just tipped over and was gone. I held his helmet while they zipped him up. And I realized… I’ve run out of excuses. I’ve wasted too much.”
He looked directly at me. “I left because I was ashamed. I lost our money in a real estate scam, remember that ‘investment opportunity’ my cousin got me into? It tanked. We were two months from eviction. I was being harassed. And instead of facing it like a man, I panicked.”
“So you just… left?”
“I figured you’d be better off without me. That maybe, I don’t know, you’d remarry. That Malhar would grow up not resenting a broke, depressed father.”
He said my name and I hated how much I wanted to hear it.
My mom finally broke. “We didn’t need you to be perfect, Devraj. We needed you to stay. That’s it. That’s literally it.”
Her voice cracked on the last word. And for a second, it felt like we were back in our old apartment. With the leaky tap. And the radio playing old Kishore Kumar songs on Sundays. Before everything cracked.
He cried then. Not loud sobs. Just quiet, shameful tears. The kind only people who’ve lost too much cry.
He didn’t stay long. Just long enough to apologize again, hand over the letters, and promise he wouldn’t show up unannounced again.
Over the next few weeks, I read every single letter. Some had doodles. One had a greasy thumbprint. He talked about bike routes through the Northeast, hostels he stayed in, jobs he picked up at odd garages, and once, about a time he slept in a cow shed for a week during monsoon season.
But every letter ended the same way:
“I miss you. I know I don’t deserve forgiveness. But I’m still your dad.”
It wasn’t a magic fix. I didn’t suddenly start calling him Baba again. But I didn’t hate him anymore either.
Then something wild happened.
My mom’s car broke down outside the local community center. She was alone, and it was pouring. Her phone was dead. Guess who pulled up on his motorcycle, almost like a movie?
He drove her home that night.
Didn’t try anything. Didn’t push.
Just handed her a helmet, said, “You always liked the rain,” and took the long way so she could see the flooded rice fields.
Three months later, he invited both of us to his garage’s opening event. He and three other ex-riders had finally pooled their savings to open a legit auto repair shop. Clean floors. Tea stall outside. Posters of 80s Bollywood films on the walls.
My mom showed up. In a sari. Said it was to “be civil.” But I knew better.
That day, I watched them laugh over something—maybe an inside joke I’d never heard before—and I felt something in my chest crack open.
Not everything heals perfect. But sometimes it does heal.
A year after that, my dad walked me down the aisle at my wedding.
My mom stood beside him, both of them misty-eyed.
We had biryani, kulfi, and a DJ who only played retro remixes. My parents even danced. Badly. But together.
I won’t pretend everything’s perfect now. We’re still learning each other. Still trying.
But I know this: people can make the wrong choices for what they think are the right reasons. That doesn’t mean you owe them forgiveness. But sometimes, giving it gives you peace.
My dad left. Yes.
But he came back. Broken, humbled, trying. And sometimes, that’s enough to start again.
