I wish I'd said it then

Dear Sacred Posts,

I'm writing this because I have to get it out. It’s been eating me alive for years, and maybe, just maybe, putting it into words will help. It's about my dad. He died five years ago, and I never told him I loved him. Not really.

We weren't a huggy-kissy family. My dad was a quiet guy, a carpenter. He worked with his hands, building things, fixing things. Words weren’t really his thing either. He showed his love by providing, by making sure we had a roof over our heads and food on the table. He taught me how to change a tire, how to hammer a nail straight, how to balance a checkbook. Practical stuff. Important stuff, I know. But not… the love stuff.

I remember being a kid, maybe eight or nine, and drawing him a picture with a big, messy heart on it. I’d written 'I love you, Daddy' in crayon. He’d smiled, ruffled my hair, and said, 'That’s nice, honey.' He stuck it on the fridge, right next to the grocery list. That was it. It wasn’t a bad reaction, not at all. But it wasn’t what I wanted, either.

As I got older, it got even harder to say those words. Teenage angst, I guess. I was always arguing with him, pushing back against his rules. He wanted me home by ten, I wanted to stay out till midnight. He wanted me to focus on school, I wanted to hang out with my friends. Stupid stuff, really. But I was convinced he didn't understand me, that he was holding me back. Saying 'I love you' felt like admitting he was right, and I couldn't do that.

Then came college, moving out, building my own life. We saw each other less, talked less. The conversations were always about practical things: my job, my apartment, the weather. Never about feelings. Never about us.

The last time I saw him, he was in the hospital. Pneumonia. He was weak, but he was still trying to be strong. He asked about my job, about my car. He told me he was proud of me. I told him I was doing okay. We talked about the weather.

I knew he was dying. I could see it in his eyes. But I still couldn't say it. The words were stuck in my throat, like a lump I couldn't swallow. I wanted to tell him how much he meant to me, how much I appreciated everything he'd done. I wanted to tell him I loved him. But I didn't. I just smiled, told him to get some rest, and said I'd see him soon.

He died that night.

Now, five years later, I carry this regret with me every single day. It's a heavy weight, a constant reminder of my failure. I replay that last conversation in my head over and over, wondering what would have happened if I'd just said those three words. Would it have made a difference? Would it have eased his pain? Would it have eased mine?

I don't know. I'll never know. All I know is that I missed my chance. And now, all I can do is write this letter, hoping that somehow, somewhere, he can hear me. Dad, I loved you. I love you. And I'm so, so sorry I never told you when you were here.

Maybe someone reading this will learn from my mistake. Don't wait. Tell the people you love how you feel. Don't let pride or fear get in the way. Because you never know when it's going to be too late.

Thank you for listening.