"A Tear That Has Not Fallen

Certainly. Here's the translated text as a single, well-structured paragraph, adhering to proper English grammar, literary cohesion, and emotional tone, ready for publication:

The father stood at the threshold of time, gazing into the emptiness that stretched between him and his son. Between them was a dense silence, like a glass wall through which each could see the other, but neither could reach. The son sat on the other side, his eyes burdened with untold stories and unhealed wounds. The father, who believed he was shaping a strong man, never realized that he was, unknowingly, carving a fracture between them. “I loved you…”—he never said it aloud, but it slipped through his weary eyes and into the heaviness of his breath. He had never learned how to express love except as harshness, never understood how to show it except through silence. He was raised to believe that manhood meant stoicism, that emotion was a weakness unworthy of someone meant to be a pillar. But the son did not see love in his father’s silence; he saw a cage. He saw his father as the warden of a freedom he never had, a symbol of long nights of discipline and decisions made without his voice. He grew up with a burning ember in his chest, carrying questions that blistered his soul: “Why didn’t you love me the way I needed? Why couldn’t you see that I needed a father, not a judge?” When he sat in the therapist’s office, he wasn’t merely speaking of his past, but of a pain that still echoed in his present—a shadow of his father that followed him long after leaving home. The father had been there, yet never truly present. He didn’t know that his son’s words would wound him more deeply than any silence ever had, that every accusation would become a mirror reflecting a version of himself he had never seen before—a father who had not been a father in the way he should have been. He wanted to say, “I’m sorry,” but the words remained lodged in his throat, transforming into a heavy tear that never fell. How do you apologize for what you never knew you were doing? How do you reclaim time, or undo wounds you didn’t realize you inflicted? The son thought he had won. He believed his words were enough revenge. But he walked away carrying a void deeper than hatred—a vague sense that his vengeance had not brought healing, and that his father was not the monster he had imagined, but a man broken in another way, a way he did not yet know how to describe. In the end, both sat alone—the father staring at an old photo of his little boy still resting on a dusty shelf, and the son, somewhere past midnight, quietly asking himself, “Was I unjust, too?”

~Firas Alwaily