Kaan was sitting in his living room in Istanbul,
silent and thoughtful, staring at his computer screen. He repeatedly read and
edited the email he had written to his father, although he hadn’t yet summoned
the courage to send it. He was striving both to express the emotions he had
gathered inside him as clearly as possible, and to avoid any mistaken phrase
that his father might twist or exaggerate. The coldness and lack of
communication between him and his father Karl had become an unbearable burden.
That chill even froze his heart on a warm autumn evening in Istanbul.
Evening had fallen, the sun had set over the sea. His
son had run to his cheek for a kiss before bedtime, using his adorable
persuasive charm to coax his mother into reading him a bedtime story. As their
voices receded down the corridor, Kaan tried to put into words the sadness he
felt at knowing his son would grow up never knowing his grandfather.
Twelve years ago, his father and his mother—originally
from İzmir—had moved to İzmir for their retirement years. But shortly
afterwards, after forty years of marriage, they had gone through a painful
separation. His father had rushed back to Canada in haste.
He read the email to his father through from start to
finish again. The sadness, anger, and disappointment he had bottled inside
weighed heavily on him. He had perhaps begun with a somewhat harsh phrase:
“Papa, you can be so cruel, but I am not.” Yet he hoped that if his father read
the letter to its conclusion, he might understand.
His father had met his mother while serving as an
observer at the American base in İzmir. He had fallen madly in love and they
had married quickly. When they were three, seven, and nine, they had moved to
Canada, their father’s homeland. Their childhood had been beautiful. They
played tennis, and he once dreamt of becoming a famous tennis player like
Daniel Nestor. When he got married at thirty-three, his parents celebrated
their fortieth wedding anniversary that year—and they were still very happy.
Later, Kaan and his wife had spent time working in
Dubai, Singapore, and Zürich. Then, after being offered a good job in Istanbul,
they had settled here six years ago. While in Dubai, some sort of indiscretion
from his father had occurred, and they divorced hastily. After that scandalous
divorce, his father had married another woman in short order—without feeling
any need to explain himself, without telling anyone.
From that day on, Karl had removed his three children
entirely from his life, returned to Canada, and began living with his new wife
in the beautiful home in Westmont where he had spent his youth. His sisters
still live in Canada, but they have never spoken to him—having always sided
with their mother. Kaan found it hard to understand either party.
Reflecting on his own small family, he wondered what
his father had sacrificed. His nephews and son were growing up without ever
knowing their grandfather. Unlike his sisters, he hadn’t given up. He had tried
many times to reach out to his father and had tried to create opportunities for
his son to meet him. They had met a few times. Yet each time, Karl had put
distance between himself and his children, yielding to the whims of his new
wife. In that email, Kaan was giving him one last chance. “Time passes, people
grow old, people die—but you never question yourself,” he had written. These
words were both a plea and a warning to his father.
Before sending the email, he took a deep breath. The
mild evening breeze of Istanbul drifted through the open window, easing his
heart somewhat. He knew every word he had written was true. He had told his
father how hurt and wounded he had been over the years—and that he was still
ready to forgive him. He paused before pressing send and thought it over. His
father might remain silent again, but he felt at peace with having done his
part. Finally, he took another deep breath and pressed the send button.
………………………………
Karl was seated in the living room of the house he had
bought on the slopes of Mont Royal about thirty years ago when his children
first grew up, opening a card-reading tool on his laptop. Autumn had come, days
were shortening. His wife was busy in the kitchen preparing lunch, and the deep
silence of the home filled him with contrasting sensations of peace and
discomfort. At that moment, a new email arrived in his inbox. The sender was
his son Kaan, with whom he had completely cut off communication for a year,
ignoring calls and messages.
His eyes locked on the screen, his heart began to
race. He hesitated, hand poised over the mouse, whether to open it or not. The
subject line was simple and direct: “Papa.” Memories flooded his mind—playing
tennis with his son on an open court in the rain, getting soaked through, the
children running up and down the stairs at home. He hoped this was the apology
he had long awaited. With hope in his heart, he clicked open the email. But the
subject had deceived him. The email began: “Papa, you can be so cruel, but I am
not.” That opening sentence had already angered him. Each time Kaan addressed
him like that, it felt like a slap, wounding his paternal pride and pushing him
toward silence. He was already irritated. He frowned, offended by the way his
son had addressed him. The words Kaan had used to suggest his new wife was
ignorant and greedy—and unworthy of their family—had burned every bridge. While
rebuilding his life, the harsh words his son had said about his wife were
unforgivable.
He took another deep breath and continued reading. “A
year has passed, and you are still silent. I have tried to reach you. A year is
not that long, but perhaps you have had time to reflect. Because of the whims
of the woman you took into your life after my mother, you erased me and my
sisters from your life. Maybe you could look at this issue again with fresh
eyes.”
He leaned back and closed his eyes. His son’s words
gnawed at him. He twisted the events in his mind, in every line accusing
him—labelling him selfish and distant. “You erased us for a woman’s whims,” his
son said. He sighed deeply. He could not accept that he had to focus on this
new life. His marriage of many years to his first wife had been happy, but
later they drifted apart. Returning to İzmir, where they had spent their
happiest decade, he thought everything would return to perfection—but everything
collapsed. Then he entered a relationship that brought him happiness again. His
new wife was truly supportive, offering peace in his life. His children,
however, not only refused to accept it—they blamed him harshly because of the
unpleasant events surrounding the divorce.
Karl, thinking that things were going well with Kaan,
had again erupted in an impulsive outburst and insulted his own wife during
their last meeting. He could never forget the angry words his son had thrown at
him. He thought to himself, “Kaan, nothing will be resolved until you apologise
to my wife.” But there was no sign of reconciliation from his son—instead, more
accusations each time, claiming he had neglected his children. Throughout the
email, Kaan reverted to the past, emphasising the weight of his father’s
decisions: “You’ve broken my heart so many times—I don’t know if I can ever
rebuild it.” That final sentence also pierced Karl’s heart deeply.
He let his fingers hover over the screen, considering
whether to write a reply. The response he would pen would surely ignite yet
another inescapable dispute. He sat up in his armchair and averted his gaze
from the screen. His wife came from the kitchen and began placing plates on the
table. For a moment, he looked out of the window. The wind was murmuring
against the house walls outside and swaying the leafless trees. He closed his
laptop, stood up, and made his way to the kitchen to help his wife.
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