It's not someone real diary its just a first narrative story.
Thanks for reading .
Something PureI am writing this because silence has become too loud.At this age, when the body grows tired but the mind refuses to rest, memories begin to line up like unanswered letters. They wait. They demand to be opened.People call these years a gift.I agree.But gifts also come with truth, and truth is not always gentle.I sit for hours thinking about my past.About the things I did.About the things I believed were right.And about the strange realization that comes at the end — that life was not what I thought it was.I named this diary Something Pure.Because all my life, I chased purity.And now, when I look back, I realize how badly I misunderstood it.I was the eldest.Three brothers.Four sisters.A mother whose youth ended the day my father died.His death did not just take him away.It changed the shape of our home.It bent my mother’s back before time.It placed a weight on my shoulders that I never learned how to put down.I remember the silence after his funeral.It was heavy.It stayed.That was the day I stopped being only a son.I became a guardian.A shield.A replacement for something irreplaceable.No one asked me to do it.But everyone needed me to.I grew up quickly.Too quickly.While others were dreaming, I was calculating.While others were laughing, I was planning.I learned responsibility before I learned joy.My brothers trusted me.My sisters depended on me.My mother leaned on me without words.And slowly, silently, I started believing that this was my purpose.That my life belonged to them.Then I got married.Young.Unprepared.Certain that love could wait.My wife entered my life softly.She did not bring noise or demands.She brought patience.I thought marriage would shift my priorities.But my siblings were already engraved into my decisions.I cared for my wife.I was never cruel.But I was never fully hers either.My time was divided.And she always received what was left.I told myself I was doing the right thing.I told myself sacrifice was purity.That family before self was virtue.So I worked.Relentlessly.I built houses — not mine.I settled lives — not my children’s.I spent my strength making sure my brothers stood strong and my sisters stood secure.People praised me.Called me responsible.Called me the backbone.No one saw the quiet distance growing inside my own home.My children grew up watching me leave early and return late.They learned to be independent too soon.They learned not to ask.I loved them.I truly did.But love without presence is incomplete.I always thought, Later.Later I will sit with them.Later I will listen.Later I will be theirs.Later never came when it should have.Time does not wait for intentions.Years passed.Faces changed.Voices hardened.My brothers no longer needed me the way they once did.My advice became control.My concern became interference.Their wives became their worlds.I do not blame them.Every person protects what they build.But I was no longer seen as a protector.I was seen as an obstacle.They called me strict.Rude.Imposing.The same hands that once held mine now pushed me away.One sentence shattered what remained of my illusion:“You think you own us.”I never wanted ownership.I only wanted togetherness.But intentions do not survive misunderstandings.Slowly, without a fight, without a farewell, I lost them.Loss does not always scream.Sometimes it just stops calling.That was the end of my dreamy world.I stood there, holding years of effort, and realized it had no place to rest.So I turned back.Finally.I looked at my wife again — truly looked.She had aged quietly.Gracefully.With patience carved into her expressions.She never accused me.Never counted my absences.She simply made space for me when I returned.That kindness hurt more than blame ever could.My children were grown now.Respectful.Careful.They accepted me the way one accepts an apology that arrives late.I tried to be better.I tried to listen.To stay.To show up.I did my best for them.Sincerely.Belatedly.And yet, guilt followed me like a shadow.At night, when the house sleeps, I ask myself difficult questions.Was I wrong?Was I right?Or was I just unaware?I know this much —I loved deeply.But I loved without balance.I gave everything to those who did not ask me to empty myself.And I delayed myself from those who were quietly waiting.Purity is not losing yourself.Purity is knowing where you belong.I learned this at the end.Now I sit here, writing, not to accuse anyone.Not my siblings.Not myself.Just to leave behind truth.Nothing is pure if it costs you your own home.Nothing is noble if it leaves regret behind.Nothing is right if love arrives too late.Still, I forgive myself.Because I did not act from cruelty.I acted from fear.From duty.From a misunderstood idea of love.If someone ever reads this, I hope they learn earlier than I did.Love your siblings.But do not forget your spouse.Love your parents.But do not delay your children.Do not search for purity outside your home.That is where it was all along.
