Dilip slammed the car door shut as he drove home after yet another gruelling day at the office. His head throbbed with stress. He knew what awaited him: his father’s endless questions about bills and responsibilities, and his mother’s silent stares, wondering when her son would sit down to eat with them like before. He sighed, frustrated even before stepping into the house.
As he entered, his mother, Mrs. Sharma, greeted him with her usual warmth. “Son, shall I serve dinner? You must be hungry,” she asked, her voice soft, trying to lighten the tense air she could sense.
Dilip barely acknowledged her, too tired to engage. Just then, his father, Mr. Sharma, came out of his room, holding a bunch of bills. “Dilip, you haven’t paid the electricity bill yet. It’s overdue! How long will I keep reminding you? You’ve become so careless these days,” he said, his tone serious.
Dilip flinched. He had barely put his bag down, and the lecture had already begun. “I said I’ll do it, Dad! I’m busy all day, I don’t need to be nagged the moment I step into the house,” he snapped, his voice strained.
His father’s face tightened. “Busy? We are all busy, Dilip, but that doesn’t mean you can ignore basic responsibilities. You need to learn how to balance—”
Dilip’s anger flared. He’d had enough. “BALANCE? How about you balance your expectations? I’m trying to manage everything, and all you do is complain! Why don’t you stop breathing down my neck for once?” His voice echoed through the house, loud and harsh.
Mr. Sharma’s face flushed with anger. “You’re forgetting who you’re talking to. I’m your father! You don’t get to raise your voice at me!”
“Then stop acting like a dictator!” Dilip shouted; his fists clenched. “You never understand how hard it is for me! Do you even care?”
Mrs. Sharma, watching the heated exchange, stepped forward to calm the situation. “Dilip, please stop, my son. It’s just a small matter. We can talk this out—”
But Dilip was too far gone. “I don’t want to talk! I’m done with this!” He stormed out of the house, slamming the door behind him. His father, still trembling from the argument, clutched his chest but said nothing. Dilip, too blinded by anger, didn’t see back.
That night, Dilip wandered aimlessly, fuming. Why did they never understand him? He thought he’d feel relieved after finally telling his father off, but instead, his heart felt heavier. He spent the night at a friend’s place, venting his frustration.
The next morning, his phone rang. It was his mother, her voice trembling, barely holding back tears. “Dilip… come home quickly. Your father… he collapsed last night.”
Dilip’s world came crashing down. He froze, the phone slipping from his hand as her words echoed in his ears. Without a second thought, he rushed home.
When he arrived, the house was eerily silent. His mother,
sitting beside the bed, had tears streaming down her face. “The doctor said it
was a mild heart attack. He’s stable now… but Dilip,” she whispered, her
voice breaking, “he kept asking for you.”
He knelt beside the bed, guilt washing over him in waves. “Papa… I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that. I was angry… I didn’t mean any of it.”
His father’s eyes fluttered open, weak but steady. He reached out and placed a trembling hand on Dilip’s. “Beta… anger doesn’t build bridges, it burns them,” he said softly. “It’s not you alone, it’s me too. I’m sorry to have been so inconsiderate.”
Dilip’s tears spilled over as he gripped his father’s hand. “I’ll never let my anger hurt you or anyone else again, Papa. I promise.”
That day, Dilip realized that the brief release of anger had
almost cost him his father’s life. It was a lesson he would never forget—anger
was expensive, too costly for the precious relationships he could never afford
to lose.