David was just a boy who wanted to be seen.
Not for his grades.
Not for his strength.
Not for what he could do to make everyone proud.
Just seen — for existing.
But his father was a man of few words, and his mother, too busy surviving her own storms, forgot that love unspoken is love unfelt.
His father, once a powerful businessman who measured life by deals closed and figures achieved, rarely came home before midnight. Even when he did, his presence was a quiet shadow in the house — a tired man who spoke to his son more with glances than words.
His mother, a top executive of a thriving multinational company, was constantly flying across continents, her suitcase always half-packed, her phone always ringing. She meant well — she thought the expensive gifts on David’s birthdays could say what her lips never found time to utter: I care. I see you.
So David spent most of his childhood in boarding schools.
An only child.
A lonely child.
Going home for vacation felt more like visiting an empty museum of memories than returning to a home.
He spent most days with Akpan, the houseboy — a fairly good man with a kind heart and simple wisdom. Akpan taught him how to fry plantain without burning it, how to polish shoes till they shone, and how to laugh without needing a reason. For a long time, that laughter was all the warmth David knew.
But time, like silence, stretches and hardens.
His parents eventually divorced — quietly, like two business partners signing the end of a contract. His mother is still all over the world attending meetings, her name on glossy boards and company headlines. His father now runs a small private consultancy from home — a man who once chased empires but now spends his days in reflection, sipping tea and nursing the guilt of all the years he lost.
He tries, sometimes, to call David. The conversations are awkward — full of pauses too heavy to carry. Still, David answers. Not out of obligation, but out of hope that one day, maybe, the silence will soften.
Because David learned to live without warmth.
He learned that quiet approval was better than nothing.
He learned that a nod could replace a hug.
And over time, his heart grew careful — not cold, just cautious.
He became that man who gives too much too soon — the kind who bends over backwards just to be told, “You’re enough.”
Because no one ever told him that before.
Every smile from a stranger felt like oxygen; every silence, a slow suffocation.
He mistook validation for affection and admiration for love.
It wasn’t his fault — he was just trying to fill the space his parents left empty.
Now, David is learning to heal.
Not through other people’s approval, but through his own reflection.
He’s begun therapy, journaling, and volunteering with young boys — teaching them the same thing he never learned early enough:
that they are worthy, even when no one claps for them.
He still battles the old ache sometimes, but now he’s learning to be his own comfort.
And that’s how David is slowly becoming whole —
not by chasing love,
but by finally giving it to himself.
