I messed up, Dad

I don’t even know why I’m writing this. It’s not like you can read it. You’re… well, you’re not here. And I feel like I need to tell someone, anyone, but I can’t tell Mom. She’d… I don’t even want to think about what she’d do. She already misses you so much. I don’t want to make it worse.

It’s about the money, Dad. The money you left me. You always said I was the responsible one, the one who could handle things. You said Michael, bless his heart, would just blow it on… well, you know Michael. You trusted me to take care of things, to make sure Mom was okay. And I… I took that responsibility, and I screwed it up. Big time.

Remember that guy, Tony, from the office? You met him at that Christmas party, the one where you wore that ridiculous Santa hat Mom made you wear? He seemed like a good guy, right? He was always talking about investments, about making your money work for you. After you… after you were gone, he started calling me. Just checking in, he said. Asking how Mom was doing. Then he started talking about this ‘opportunity.’

He said it was a sure thing, Dad. A guaranteed return. He showed me these charts and graphs, talked about market trends and algorithms. It all sounded so complicated, so… smart. And I wanted to be smart, too. I wanted to make you proud. I thought, ‘This is it. This is how I take care of Mom, how I make sure she’s set for life.’

I know, I know. I should have talked to Mom. I should have talked to someone. But Tony was so convincing. He said it was time-sensitive, that the opportunity wouldn’t last. He pressured me, and I… I gave him the money. Not all of it, thank God. Just… a big chunk. Enough to make me sick every time I think about it.

And then, nothing. The website disappeared. Tony stopped answering his phone. The office said he’d been ‘let go’ a few weeks before. Gone. Just like that. And with him went… well, you know.

I haven’t told Mom. I can’t. She’s already… fragile. She depends on that money. I’ve been trying to make it back, Dad. I’ve been working extra shifts, selling stuff online, anything I can think of. But it’s not enough. It’s never going to be enough.

I feel so stupid. So naive. You trusted me, and I let you down. I let Mom down. I don’t know what to do. I keep thinking about what you would say. You’d probably be disappointed. Maybe even angry. But you’d also try to fix it. You always did. You always knew how to make things better.

I miss you so much, Dad. Not just for the money, but for everything. For your advice, for your laugh, for just… being you. I wish you were here. I really, really wish you were here. I don’t know how to fix this. I don’t know what to do. I just… I messed up, Dad. I really messed up.

Sometimes, when I can't sleep, I imagine us fishing. Remember that time at the lake? I was so small, and I kept tangling the line. You were so patient, Dad. You showed me how to cast, how to reel it in, how to be still and wait. I wasn't patient then. I wanted to catch a fish RIGHT NOW. You just smiled and said, 'Good things come to those who wait, kiddo.' I think I need to remember that. I need to be patient. And maybe, just maybe, I can fix this mess.

But right now, I just feel… lost. I feel like I'm drowning, and there's no one to pull me out. I wish I could go back, Dad. I wish I could undo it all. I wish I had listened to you more, asked more questions, learned more from you while you were here. You always knew best. You always had the answers.

Mom keeps your old fishing hat on the coat rack. I see it every time I come home. It smells like you, a little bit, like Old Spice and… I don't know… sunshine and sawdust. I touch it sometimes, when I think no one is looking. It makes me feel a little closer to you.

I know I need to tell Mom. I know I can't keep this a secret forever. But I'm scared. So scared. I don't want to hurt her. I don't want to break her heart even more. But I also know that keeping it a secret is eating me alive. It's like a poison, slowly seeping into everything I do. I can't sleep, I can't eat, I can't even focus at work. All I can think about is the money, and Tony, and how much I messed up.

Maybe… maybe I'll tell her tomorrow. Or next week. Or… someday. I don't know. I just need to find the right words. The right time. And maybe, just maybe, she'll forgive me. And maybe, just maybe, you will too, Dad.

I miss you. I love you. And I'm so, so sorry.