I'm so, so sorry, Dad

Dear Sacred Posts,

I need to get this off my chest. It's been eating me alive for years, and I don't know who else to tell. It's about my dad. He passed away five years ago, and I still haven't forgiven myself for how I treated him in the last few months of his life.

He was sick, you know? Not suddenly, but a slow decline. Cancer. They caught it late, and by then, it was just about making him comfortable. And I... I wasn't there. Not really. I went to the hospital, sure. Sat by his bed, held his hand. But my head wasn't there. My heart wasn't there. I was so wrapped up in my own stupid life.

I had just started a new job. A good job, finally, after years of bouncing around. It was demanding, lots of hours, lots of pressure. And I used that as an excuse. "I have to work, Dad. I need to prove myself. This is important for my future." That's what I told him. What I told myself.

But the truth is, I didn't *want* to be there. It was hard. Seeing him like that, so weak, so frail. It scared me. It reminded me that everyone dies, that I'm going to die. And I didn't want to think about that. So I hid behind my job. I hid behind my ambition.

Mom was amazing. She was there every day, taking care of him, making sure he had everything he needed. She’s a saint, I swear. And I resented her a little bit, I think. Resented her strength, her selflessness. Resented that she made me feel guilty for not being more like her.

We argued a lot, Mom and I. About everything. About the doctors, about the treatments, about how I wasn't pulling my weight. I was short with her, impatient. I snapped at her. Looking back, I don’t know how she put up with me.

And Dad... he just watched. He was too weak to say much, but I could see the sadness in his eyes. He knew. He knew I was avoiding him. He knew I was putting my job before him. And he never said a word. He just smiled weakly and told me he was proud of me.

That's what kills me the most. He was proud of me. Even when I was being a selfish, awful son. He still loved me, unconditionally. And I couldn't even give him a few hours of my time. I couldn't even be present in the moment.

After he died, I felt a huge wave of relief. I know that sounds terrible, but it's true. Relief that the suffering was over. Relief that I didn't have to see him like that anymore. Relief that I could finally go back to my "normal" life.

But the relief didn't last long. The guilt set in, and it's been with me ever since. I replay those last few months in my head over and over again, thinking about all the things I should have done differently. All the time I wasted. All the opportunities I missed.

I'm married now. I have a kid of my own. And I think about Dad every single day. I wonder what he would think of my wife, of my daughter. I wonder if he would be proud of me now. I hope so. But I know, deep down, that I'll never be able to fully forgive myself for letting him down when he needed me the most.

I just hope that somehow, somewhere, he knows how sorry I am. I love you, Dad. I really do.

Sincerely,

Mark