Even though I was thirty and had my own place across town, he called me his little daughter. Very close till we weren’t.
Six years ago, we fought. A dumb one, honestly. It started over politics, but below was pain, control, and two individuals who no longer spoke the same language. I shut the door on him that day. Neither of us followed up.
The call followed.
A facility woman said he was admitted a month ago. Pneumonia followed dementia symptoms. They were understaffed. Closed to guests. I had no idea he left home.
My pulse raced as I drove there the next morning, like I was going to court. He merely gazed at me outside his window. I waved. He blinks. Then he sat up slowly.
That second photo? That was our first contact in nearly five years. Glass or not, I broke.
Though he couldn’t speak, he raised his hand and I matched it. Sorry, I told him. I have no idea if he heard or understood me. He closed his eyes briefly, like he was holding something important.
I kept my trip a secret. Neither my brother nor my partner. I still haven’t listened to the nurse’s message.
I may not be ready to listen.
I waited three days before playing the message on my phone. The nurse spoke calmly yet firmly: “Your father has turned. He wants you. Please visit soon.”
Seeking me? That wasn’t rational. My dad hadn’t asked for anything since our fight. On holidays, birthdays, and family events, he kept his distance. Why does he suddenly desire me?
I was haunted by guilt. Maybe this was my chance to make things right for him before it was too late. I packed an overnight bag, kissed my partner goodbye without mentioning where I was going (since I wasn’t sure), and returned to the nursing home.
They allowed me in this time. The lobby smelled like disinfectant and worn carpet, and fluorescent lights buzzed. A young assistant took me along a corridor with slightly ajar doors, showing glimpses of halted lives due to age or disease. She paused and gently knocked on Room 12 at the end of the hall.
“Come in,” said a feeble voice I couldn’t identify as my father’s.
Walking inside the doorway froze me. He appeared smaller than I recalled, his wide shoulders huddled under blankets. He had practically all gray hair and a thinner, more vulnerable face. His keen blue eyes, which could see through lies, were the same.
“Hey,” I nervously said, hesitating near the entrance.
“Close the door,” he said, shocking me with his clarity. “You look like running.”
After hesitating, I followed. Sitting on the chair beside his bed seemed like entering a dream where everything is familiar but incorrect. We were silent for a while. He watched me study the blanket patterns while waiting.
Finally, he spoke. “Why came you?”
I was surprised by his inquiry. Was it obvious? Because he was sick, needed someone, and I owed him… But none of those replies seemed genuine enough to utter.
“I got your message,” I stumbled. “They said you wanted me.”
His deliberate nod seemed to affirm something to himself. I want your presence. Before…” He stopped, leaving the rest unspoken.
First, what? Before he forget me? Before he stopped speaking? He died before? All those options loomed.
“Remember our last conversation?” I asked gently, expecting wrath or disappointment.
I was surprised when he laughed dry and raspily. Of course I remember. You left after calling me obstinate and pigheaded. Which is fair.”
My jaw fell. “What?”
“Oh, don’t act so shocked,” he waved dismissively. I knew I was difficult. Neither were you, honey. You got my fury, you know.”
For the first time in years, I smiled at him, us, and the folly of sitting here healing old wounds when life seemed so uncertain. Something about the chuckle shattered the ice.
That day we talked for hours. Just about anything. About nothing. About Mom, whose passing six years ago started our struggle. He said he didn’t understand my career but was proud of it. About my brother, who always made peace and undoubtedly resented us.
He grabbed my hand strongly despite his infirmity. He said, “I never stopped loving you. Despite not knowing how to express it.”
My eyes watered. “I never stopped loving you either, Dad.”
I was called again two weeks later. My brother sent it this time, not the nurse. As he broke the news, his voice cracked: Dad died quietly in his sleep.
I sobbed harder than expected. We discovered each other in time, not simply because he was gone. Since he and I had forgiven each other. Love triumphed.
At the funeral, individuals told me about my dad’s kindness, generosity, and humor. Each narrative depicted a man I wished I had known better. As I held a white rose beside his grave, I realized something important:
Repairing damage is never too late. Life is complex and unexpected. People injure each other, deliberately or not. Forgiveness is about moving ahead together, even if only temporarily.
Take out your resentment by calling. Post a letter. Visit. Reconnect however necessary. You might not have another chance.
