I made jokes so they wouldn’t cry

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I cry easily.

Sad movies, kind words from strangers, dogs reunited with their owners. I’m that person who wells up over things most people don’t even blink at.

But I never cry at airports.

Not when I’m leaving. Not when I’m watching someone else go. It’s like something inside me goes very still, very quiet, and refuses to let it out.

It’s not because I’m holding back out of pride. I don’t mind being seen crying. I don’t mind feeling deeply. But there’s something about that space, the terminals, the goodbyes, the way people try to smile through cracking voices.. that makes me want to protect the other person from what I’m feeling.

So I hold it in.

Because if I cry, maybe they will too.

And I want them to go with a little more peace than what goodbye usually allows.

I recently saw my dad again after three years.

It’s funny how three years feels so normal when it’s just a line in a conversation: Oh, I haven’t seen my dad in a while. But it’s so much time. Three birthdays. Three monsoons. So many days I wanted to call and didn’t. Or couldn’t.

Most of my family lives abroad. My dad and I also live in different countries, so it’s rare that we’re in the same place at the same time. I’ve probably seen him twice in the last seven years.

But this time, I got to stay with him. Not just for a few hours or a dinner. A whole month. With him and the others, the people who knew me before the world did.

It was the happiest I’ve felt this year.

The day he was leaving, I went to drop him at the airport with my younger siblings. I could tell they were holding it in too. The air in the car was too quiet for that time of day.

So I cracked jokes.

I teased him about forgetting his charger. Made fun of his airport outfit. Said something ridiculous just to make them roll their eyes. It worked. We all laughed. We were trying to make the moment feel lighter than it was.. for them, for him. Maybe for me too.

But underneath it, I could see it in their faces. They wanted to cry.

And I couldn’t let that happen.

Not because I didn’t feel it, I did. I felt it in my chest, in the back of my throat, in the part of me that knew what it meant to say goodbye without knowing exactly when you’ll say hello again.

But I didn’t want our father to leave with guilt.

Not after giving us so much peace just by being here.

Not with our sadness stitched to his departure.

So I stood still. Smiled. Stayed dry-eyed.

Watched him walk through the glass doors into that neutral, borderless space of transit and disappear from view.

I don’t know why I’m writing this, maybe because I’ve started to realize that being strong for other people sometimes means denying your own softness. And sometimes, that’s okay. But sometimes, maybe it’s not.

I wonder what would happen if I did cry next time.

If I let the emotion spill out in the middle of the terminal, no matter who sees.

If I let myself be comforted, instead of always being the one doing the comforting.

But maybe that’s a different version of me.

One who hasn’t had to be the strong one for so long.

Maybe that version still lives somewhere in me.

Maybe she’s just waiting for someone to tell her,

You can let go now. It’s okay.