I hit play. “Your father has taken a turn. He’s asking for you. Please come.” It didn’t make sense—he hadn’t asked for me in years. But guilt pushed me. I packed a bag and drove to the facility. This time, they let me in. He looked small, frail. But his eyes? Still sharp. “You look ready to run,” he said. I sat beside him. We spoke—haltingly at first. About Mom. About my brother. About us. He said he was proud of me, even if he didn’t understand my path. He held my hand and told me he’d always loved me. I told him I never stopped loving him either. Two weeks later,
my brother called. Dad had passed quietly in his sleep. I cried harder than I expected—not just because he was gone, but because we’d found our way back to each other in time. At his funeral, people shared stories of the man he was. I wished I’d known more of him sooner. But I learned something important: It’s never too late to fix what’s broken. Life is messy, and forgiveness doesn’t mean forgetting—it means choosing to move forward together. If this story speaks to you, reach out. Make the call. Write the letter. You might not get another chance.