Unspoken Wounds 

Unspoken Wounds  -   in Persian   زخم‌های ناگفته 

John Kazerooni

Once upon a time, far from the noise of a crowded city, there lived a family wrapped in a quiet harmony—the kind that does not need to be seen to be felt. Their days were simple, their nights gentle, and between them flowed something constant: peace.

They had a son. A kind, loving son. He grew, as all children do—first in innocence, then in knowledge, and finally into a man shaped by education, effort, and dreams that reached beyond the small world he once knew. When the time came, he left for another city to pursue his path.

But distance, as life teaches us, does not always mean separation. Though far from his parents, his heart never learned how to be away. Not truly. Almost every day, he called them. From quiet walks to his office, from the warmth of his kitchen, from moments of rest or passing thought—he would share his life with them.

And they would wait. Each day, his parents waited for his call. It became their rhythm, their comfort, their reason to smile through the weight of aging bodies and weary days. If a call did not come, silence would fill the space with questions. “Why didn’t he call today?”

And yet, they would hold onto hope. “Tomorrow, he will.”

And when tomorrow came—and the phone rang—their world would gently return to light.

The love between them was so steady, so present, that distance never truly existed. His parents, worn by years of work, touched by illness, and quietly preparing for life’s final chapter, found their energy in something simple: Hearing his voice.

Life, however, has a way of testing even the strongest bonds. The son’s journey was not always smooth. Some days brought joy, others disappointment. There were moments of frustration—lost opportunities, harsh words, unexpected failures. And like many of us, he shared.

“They didn’t raise my salary.”

“They didn’t accept my credit card, and they asked for my bank account information to register me at the gym.”

“I was treated unfairly.”

“They let me go.”

His parents listened with understanding. They had lived long enough to know that struggle is part of life’s rhythm. His pain did not trouble them. But it was not the pain that unsettled their hearts. It was what came after.

“I will do the same.”

“I will erase them.”

“I will make them pay.”

They knew their son. They knew his heart was gentle, that his words did not match his actions. Yet, as all parents do, they worried. Because love makes the mind imagine what the heart hopes will never be. Those words—spoken in passing, carried by frustration—began to echo in their thoughts. Quietly, persistently. The world they saw through news and stories did not help. Violence, anger, sudden tragedies—these shadows crept into their imagination, replacing peace with silent concern.

Time passed, as it always does. And one day, the calls stopped. His parents left this world—perhaps in peace, perhaps with small worries they never shared. Perhaps with love fulfilled, or perhaps with questions that lingered quietly in their hearts.

And the son remained. Now, sometimes, he still speaks. In quiet moments, he whispers as if they are still there—on the other end of a call that no longer exists. He tells them about his days, his thoughts, the small details of life he once shared so freely.

But something has changed. Gone are the words of anger. Gone are the thoughts of revenge.

Now, his voice carries only gentleness. Only love. Only the peace he wishes he had given them more of when they could still hear him. Or perhaps… they still do.

And so, what remains are not answers, but questions—soft, persistent, waiting within us:

Do we pause to consider that once a word is spoken, we no longer own it—it belongs to the person who must carry it?

Can we learn to share our burdens without letting them become a weight for those we love to bear?

How do we teach our children that true strength lies in patience and love, not in anger and reaction?

How can we show them that when we become what we dislike in others, we slowly lose ourselves?

What matters more in the end—what we gain, or the peace we leave behind?

And when sorrow comes, as it always does…does it guide us forward, or leave us wishing we had chosen differently?

Because one day, the calls will stop…and all that will remain are the words we chose to leave behind.

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