Even after moving into my own apartment and nearing thirty, my dad still called me his little girl. We used to be close—until a fight six years ago tore us apart. It wasn’t really about politics; it was grief, control, and two people no longer speaking the same emotional language. I shut the door, and neither of us reached back out.Then I got a call. A woman from a facility told me my dad had been admitted a month ago—dementia, then pneumonia. No visitors allowed. I hadn’t even known he’d left his home. I went,
the next day. When he saw me through the window, he blinked, then sat up slowly. We hadn’t touched in six years. I raised my hand. He did too. I apologized through the glass. I don’t know if he understood, but he closed his eyes, like he was holding something sacred. I didn’t tell anyone I visited. Not my boyfriend, not my brother. I couldn’t even bring myself to listen to the nurse’s voicemail. Three days later,