Grieving the Loss of a Silent Parent

I finally understand what I miss about my dad.

Nisha Mody


Photo by Andraz Lazic on Unsplash

My dad died unexpectedly six years ago and my life was changed forever. But it wasn’t because we were close, our emotional connection was wanting. It has taken me a while to understand what I miss about him.

He emigrated from India in the late ’60s to get his master’s degree in engineering. My dad was always the smartest guy in his class, the quintessential nerdy social recluse.

He rarely said he loved me nor did he engage in many activities with my brother and me. When I looked for Father’s Day cards for him, I laughed at the golf and grilling references. The silly dad joke cards never seemed to fit…nor did the sappy ones. Hallmark didn’t cater to the nerdy and distant South Asian dad. When we were alone together, there wasn’t much conversation. He usually turned on AM radio to let the “Traffic and Weather Together on the 8's” fill the silence.

After he died, I was, of course, sad because he was my dad and now he was gone. The structure of our family was altered, my mom was alone, and now we had to pick up the pieces. But I wished I was sadder. I wished I missed him more. I wished he told us his hopes, dreams, and fears. I wished I knew what he thought about when he sat on the couch and twisted his mustache, staring into space. Now I never will.

I know he loved me. He showed me through his actions. He went to every parent-teacher conference, he fought for me to get into a super advanced math class, and he cried when he saw me the morning of my wedding day.

But most of the time, our relationship felt dull.

In elementary school, both my parents and brother had to leave the house before me, so I would be home alone for about 45 minutes before I walked to the bus stop. He called me every morning at 7:25 a.m. to make sure I was ready. We had the same conversation every day

“Do you have your lunch?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I responded.

“Ready to leave?”


“Okay bye.”


When I called home after I was older and out of the house, he answered the phone, asked…



Nisha Mody

Writer. Feminist Healing Coach. Librarian. Cat Mom. I write about healing & justice. Read more at and hear me on my podcast, MigrAsians.