1 minute read

My family says they never see me crying. That is true. Kids always say they only saw me crying once.

I don’t think it is an accomplishment. It is not some kind of macho thing. In situations, I was just holding it together, being there to comfort them.

Or whatever was the reason. I don’t know. But that is what they know of me. “He cannot cry.”

It was the day after she was transported from the ER to the mental health facility.

I was exhausted. Not physically, but mentally and emotionally.

I happened to be alone at home. I opened the computer and could not focus on anything.

I sat there with a blank stare at a blank screen.

I sent a message that I’ll miss work that day. One less thing to worry about. Still couldn’t get anything done. Staring in front of me. I thought I make some breakfast.

I don’t even remember what I was trying to make. But I remember that in the middle of kitchen it happened. I started weeping. First in short burst. Then longer and longer.

I stood there, bent forward, reached for the countertop with both hands. Held tight and let it go.

Nobody was there. And even if there was anyone, there was nothing anyone could have done in that moment. It was just me weeping in the middle of the kitchen.