But you were silent. Silent in your pain. Silent in your fear. Silent in your sorrow.

We sat there together, your frail hands encased in my warm, youthful ones. Those three sacred words were on the tip of my tongue, yet I couldn’t get them out. They were shameful words, words of weakness and childishness. I couldn’t dare say them.

Did you feel it, Bobby?

I suppose you did. You were an expert at keeping your emotions deep beneath the surface, but you had an uncanny ability to read what others were thinking. Your inner world was so vast and deep, but oh, so hidden.

I wish I had heard some wisdom from you, and the secret to your superhuman reserves of strength. I wish I had heard about your childhood, your hellish experiences in Auschwitz, your immigration to the United States, your introduction to Zeidy, and everything beyond that.

How I wish I had been privy to your thoughts, your feelings, your musings.

And how I wish I had heard that you love me.

But you were silent. Silent in your pain. Silent in your fear. Silent in your sorrow.

We could have been fooled by your silence, had you not cried out in fright, night after night.

Mommy inherited your silence.

She was warm, she was caring, and she was so very silent.

Like you, she nourished us with homey, healthy meals. Like you, she raised us with creative and innovative techniques, ahead of her time. Like you, she was ready to do anything for her children.

Like you, she was unaware of the importance of expressing love to her kids. Like you, she didn’t realize that a hug is something a child will remember forever. Like you, she was overtaken by her inner world of depth and emotion, leaving us feeling alone and afraid.

Did you know, Bobby? I wonder if you knew.

I wonder if you knew that I never got a hug from Mommy. I wonder if you knew that I never went to bed with a goodnight kiss and a mother’s sweet smile. I wonder if you knew that nobody ever told me they loved me.

I wonder if you knew that Tatty was abusive. Our accomplished, respected, and choshuve Tatty.

I wonder if you knew that he called me names, and told me that no one would want to marry me. I wonder if you knew that he yelled at Mommy in the bedroom when he thought we couldn’t hear. He certainly didn’t know that I heard everything.

I wonder if you knew that Tatty threatened us and shamed us. I wonder if you knew that he could yell so loudly that his face would turn colors. I wonder if you knew that he caused us to hate ourselves, distrust ourselves, and question our right to exist.

I wonder if you knew. Surely had you known, you would have said something.

Bobby, I always wanted to get to know you. To truly know you.

From a tender age, I knew we shared a bond. I felt a kinship with you, and I knew that we were similar in many ways.

And so I sat with you. In silence. Waiting, hoping, praying that you would communicate with me.

Alas, you were unable to. I couldn’t, either.

But now, Bobby — now I can tell you. Now I can tell you what is in my own rich inner world.

I can tell you that with a strength I didn’t know I had, I reached out for help. I worked, and still work, on allowing myself to feel, to love, to experience. It’s hard. So hard. To face my deepest beliefs, to tackle my deepest insecurities, to rise above my deepest fears.

But it’s so worth it.

I can tell you, while gazing at my daughter who bears your name, that I have lived through a lifetime of experience in my paltry 20-something years. I can tell you that I have reached heights I’d never deemed possible. I can tell you that I have a flourishing and developing relationship with both of my parents. I can tell you that my relationship with Hashem, once almost nonexistent, is blossoming and growing.

I can tell you that I’m proud of myself. You would be, too.

And Bobby, I can tell you that I love you.

I love you, and I dearly miss you.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 836)