Chapter 41: Letters That Gave Him a Father’s Name

The study room was unusually quiet.

Veeresh sat behind his desk, files untouched, his mind still full of the morning—Poornima, the children, the way the house had begun to breathe like a home again.

A soft knock broke the silence.

“Dada…”

He looked up.

William, Charles, and little Mannat stood at the door, slightly nervous, hands hidden behind their backs.

“Come in,” Veeresh said gently.

They walked in together. Mannat stepped forward first and placed three handmade cards on the table, her tiny fingers trembling with excitement.

Veeresh smiled instantly.
“What is this, beta?”

William looked at him with shining eyes.
“Dada… you read.”

Veeresh picked up the first card.

William’s Letter

Dear Dada,
I don’t know how to write big English like school, but I want to say this.

We never saw our real father. We don’t know how it feels when teachers say ‘Father’s name’ or when there is Father’s Day in school.

Sometimes I felt empty. Sometimes I felt angry but I didn’t know why.

But when I came here, you never made us feel like outsiders.
You talk softly. You smile. You listen.

You don’t shout. You don’t scare us.

I think this is what a father is.

You are our Dada, but for me… you are my Dad.

I love you.
— William

Veeresh’s throat tightened. His fingers trembled as he folded the letter slowly, carefully, as if it were something sacred.

He took a deep breath before opening the next card.

Charles’s Letter

Dear Dada,
Mumma says brave men don’t shout, they protect.

I think you are brave.

You let us talk. You let us ask questions.
You never say ‘you are not mine’.

When you smile at us, I feel safe.

When you hug us, I feel strong.

I don’t remember my real father, but I don’t feel sad anymore.
Because I have you.

Thank you for being with us.
Thank you for loving Mumma.

I want to be like you when I grow up.
— Charles

Veeresh leaned back in his chair, eyes moist now, lips curved in a smile he couldn’t control.

Then came the smallest card—drawn with crayons.

Mannat’s Letter

It wasn’t written properly.
It didn’t need to be.

A stick-figure man.
Six little children around him.
A woman in the middle with a heart drawn over her head.

At the top, written unevenly:

MY DADA ❤️

Below it:

I love you Dada.
You carry me.
You smile with me.
You are my papa also.

— Mannu

That was it.

Veeresh broke.

He stood up instantly, walked around the table, and pulled all three of them into his arms.

“My kids…” his voice cracked.

William hugged him tightly.
Charles pressed his face into his chest.
Mannat wrapped her arms around his neck.

“We didn’t know what ‘dad’ means,” William whispered.
“We missed it in school… on Father’s Day.”

Charles added softly,
“But you are nice, Dada.”

“We love you,” Mannat said, kissing his cheek.

Veeresh closed his eyes and held them closer.

“You are my children,” he said firmly, emotion thick in his voice.
“And I love you.”

He pulled back slightly so they could see his face.

“You can talk to me,” he said.
“Anytime. About anything.”

“No fear. No hiding.”

“I am here.”

They hugged him again—longer, tighter.

In that moment, Veeresh Sisodiya didn’t feel like a man who had remarried for society.
He didn’t feel like a widower.
He didn’t feel like someone filling a role.

He felt like a father.

Not by blood.
But by choice.
By love.