I'm Sorry, Dad. Really.

Dad, if you ever see this, I just… I need to say it. I'm sorry. I’m so, so sorry for how I acted when Mom died. I was a monster. I know it.

It’s been… God, it’s been almost fifteen years now. Fifteen years and I still wake up sometimes in a cold sweat remembering the things I said to you, the way I treated you. You were grieving too! You lost your wife, your partner, the woman you built a life with. And what did I do? I blamed you. I screamed at you. I accused you of… everything.

I remember specifically saying that it was your fault she got sick. Something about how you made her stressed all the time with your work, your hobbies, just…you. I said you didn't pay enough attention. I don't even know what I was saying or where it came from. I know I'm not a good speaker, but that day, something dark took over me, and I said those awful things. I see now that those accusations were so, so far off. She loved you. We all did. That's why it hurt so much, I think.

I was… I was seventeen. A stupid, grieving, angry seventeen-year-old. But that’s no excuse. You were a saint. You took it all. You just stood there and took it. You never yelled back, never defended yourself, never said a word. You just looked… sad. So, so sad.

And then, after the funeral, I just… I left. I couldn’t stand being in that house anymore. Couldn’t stand seeing you. I packed my bags and went to stay with Aunt Carol. And then I went to college, far away. And then I just… stayed away. I visited for holidays, sure, but it was always… strained. Awkward. Like there was this huge, unspoken thing hanging between us.

And there was. It was me. It was my guilt. I knew I had been terrible to you, and I couldn’t face it. I couldn’t face *you*.

I’m 32 now. I have a wife, a house, a life. I’m… happy. I think. But there’s always this little shadow hanging over me. This… knot of regret in my stomach.

I see other fathers and daughters together, laughing, talking, and I just… I feel this pang of sadness. Because we never had that. Not really. Not after Mom died. I stole that from us. I stole those years.

I’m calling you this week. I’m going to say this to your face. I should have done it a long time ago. I don’t expect you to forgive me. I don’t even deserve it. But I need you to know. I need you to know that I know what I did was wrong. And I am truly, deeply, sorry. I love you, Dad.

I hope maybe, someday, we can actually move on and fix things. I really, really do.