5 min to read
The Sun will rise again
No matter how hard it rains, one day the rain stops and the sun rises.
December 13, 2018.
The fluorescent lights of the hospital room flickered softly, casting an eerie glow on the white walls. I sat on the cold metal chair, my hands trembling as I clasped them together. In front of me, my father lay on the hospital bed — frail, motionless, yet breathing. I could barely see through the tears clouding my eyes.
“Life is unpredictable,” I had once told myself. “It can make you smile in one moment and crush you in the next.” But in that moment, as I watched him fighting between life and death, I realized something deeper — life never warns you before throwing its biggest surprises.
I was 14 years old when my hatred for my father had reached its peak. That morning was no different. I was rushing to get ready for school. By the time I stumbled to the breakfast table, he was already done. His plate was clean, the tea cup empty. He barely looked at me.
“You’re late.” he said coldly. It was five minutes.
I stared at him, hunger gnawing at my stomach. But he didn’t care. He pushed his chair back, the sound echoing in the silent room, and walked away without a word. I hated him. And deep down, I knew he hated me too.
Maybe, because of what had happened when I was born.
The day I came into this world, my father’s life was turned upside down.
I was the first boy after eight cousin sisters. My grandmother was so ecstatic that she couldn’t contain herself. She sprinted toward the hospital room, her heart pounding with joy. But in her excitement, she pushed the door with such force that she didn’t notice my father standing behind it.
He was a thin man. Too fragile to withstand the impact. He stumbled backward, hitting the iron bar of my cot. Blood gushed from his nose as he collapsed. While my birth was celebrated as a blessing by everyone else, for him — it was a disaster.
Since that moment, I wasn’t just his son. I was a constant reminder of his pain.
That morning, after he dropped me at the school gate, something strange happened. I was walking toward my class when I noticed an unusual coin lying on the ground. It was old, rusted, and yet… strangely captivating. Like any curious 14-year-old, I picked it up and slipped it into my pocket. I had no idea that the coin would change everything.
When I returned home that evening, I was greeted by chaos.
My father’s angry voice echoed through the house. He was shouting at my mother, his eyes filled with an unusual desperation.
“Where is it?!” he screamed.
I froze. My heart pounded as I watched him search frantically.
I pulled the coin from my pocket, my fingers trembling. “Is… this what you’re looking for?” I asked softly.
His eyes widened, and for a brief second, I saw something I had never seen before — fear. But it was gone in an instant, replaced by fury.
“Give it to me!” he roared.
I shook my head. “No.”
And that’s when everything went dark.
The blow came faster than I could register. His hand landed across my face, sending me crashing to the floor. Pain seared through my body, but the real pain was deeper — in my heart. I sat there, broken, tears streaming down my face.
How could a father be so brutal? How could he draw blood from his own blood… for a coin?
In that moment, I wanted nothing more than to hurt him back. To break his nose — again.
That night, I lay on my bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to blink away the tears. I didn’t want to see him ever again. But then… he came.
His footsteps were slow, hesitant. He stood at the door, silent for a while, before finally speaking.
“Son,” his voice was barely above a whisper.
I didn’t respond.
He walked closer and sat beside me, his posture slumped, defeated. For the first time, I saw something in his eyes that I had never seen before — vulnerability.
“The wealth you see… I didn’t get it easily,” he began. “I ploughed through life with sweat and tears. And this coin… it was all I had when I started. Your grandfather gave it to me, saying it was magical. And maybe it was. It brought me luck. It changed my life.”
His voice cracked, and he paused, taking a shaky breath.
“But when I lost it… I was scared,” he admitted, his gaze falling to the floor. “I was scared that my happiness would crumble. That… the life I built would fall apart. I was afraid…”
He turned to me, his eyes filled with a sadness I couldn’t comprehend.
He placed the coin in my hand and said, “What will I do with this money if I’m not happy? And will I be happy… if I lose you?”
My eyes widened, and my breath caught in my throat.
I collapsed into his arms, my sobs echoing in the silence of the night. I felt the warmth I had longed for all my life. And for the first time… I felt ❤️.
And that night, I learned a lesson that stayed with me forever:
“No matter how hard it rains, for days or even for months… one day, the rain will stop. And when the sun rises, it may feel uncertain at first. But sooner or later… it always shines.”
As I sat beside him in that hospital room years later, watching the beeping monitor, I realized that love doesn’t always come with words. It’s in the actions. In the silent sacrifices. In the unspoken fears.
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