What His Father’s Death Left Behind…

Humans need connections. It’s just how we’re built, craving warmth, stability, the kind of comfort we first find in our parents. But life isn’t designed to keep that safe for us. When it’s taken away, the brain panics, scrambling to make sense of what feels impossible. I remember my friend after his father’s death he was in shock, lost for nearly a day, like he couldn’t believe it was real.

And that’s the thing, reality rarely gives us what we expect. The connection we want, the kind where someone fully understands and supports you, isn’t something most of us actually get. When he finally came out of that silence following his father’s death, he didn’t let himself feel much. Instead, he just said, I’m alone now, but maybe I always was. Things are just harder now. There was no anger, no drama, just a cold truth. And I knew he was right.

I’ve thought about that a lot, about how I fit into it. Maybe it’s because of my autism, but I can’t understand his emotions, not the way he probably needs me to. But then again, nobody else can either. That’s the part we don’t like to admit. His pain, his grief, his sense of loss after his father’s death, it’s his! It belongs to him, and no one else can carry it for him. That’s just life. We all have to bear certain things on our own, no matter how much others want to help.

And I’ve never been good at emotions, not his, not mine, not anyone’s. When people open up to me, I can see their pain, but I can’t feel it the way they do. They want comfort, warmth, something I don’t know how to give. It’s not that I don’t care; it’s that I can’t. My brain doesn’t work that way. It leans on logic when people need understanding, and that gap between what they need and what I can offer, it feels impossible to close. Even understanding how the brain processes emotions doesn’t help me actually connect to them. It’s like knowing the steps to a dance but never being able to move in rhythm.

And so, I’ve learned something harsh but true: in the end, nobody fully knows you, and you’ll never fully know anyone else. It’s not because people don’t care, it’s just how we’re built. We’re all locked inside our own heads, carrying thoughts and feelings that don’t fully translate. Maybe the answer is to stop expecting someone else to bridge that gap for you and learn how to carry it yourself.

Sometimes I wonder if I should try harder. Be more careful with people. Try to give them what they need. And I do try. But I know I’ll never fully understand my friend’s grief after his father’s death, just like he’ll never fully understand the things I carry. That’s not selfish, it’s just reality. We all have invisible weights that no one else can truly share, and in the end, we carry them alone.

Man stands face to face with the irrational. He feels within him his longing for happiness and for reason. The absurd is born of this confrontation between the human need and the unreasonable silence of the world.

The Myth of Sisyphus, Albert Camus

That’s why losing a father is so much more than just grief. For a son, it’s losing more than a person, it’s losing the one who made you feel safe. And no matter how much people talk about equality or changing roles, that fear is still there. Losing your father throws you into a new reality where you’re suddenly the one who has to step up. You become the provider, the protector, and it’s a role you never asked for. Watching my friend go through that shift after his father’s death, seeing that weight fall on him, it wasn’t just painful; it was devastating. And yet, life doesn’t pause for things like this. It keeps moving, while he’s left to figure it all out on his own.

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