I don’t know if you’ll ever read this, Dad. Maybe it’s too late, or maybe I just never had the courage to say it in person.
I remember the way you used to wait for me at the dinner table, even when I came home late. You’d pretend like it was no big deal, but I knew you were tired. I knew you had a long day, yet you still waited, hoping we’d share a meal. And I? I just shrugged it off. “I already ate,” I’d say, without thinking twice.
I remember the disappointment in your eyes when I snapped at you for “not understanding me.” I thought I knew everything back then. Thought you were just being old-fashioned, nagging me about things that didn’t matter. But looking back, all you wanted was to protect me, to guide me in ways only a father can.
Now, I’d give anything to go back and sit with you at that dinner table. To tell you about my day. To say, “I’m sorry” for all the times I didn’t listen, for the times I made you feel unimportant. You were never unimportant, Dad. You were my foundation, and I was too blind to see it.
If I could say one thing now, it would be this: I love you, and I hope you always knew that even when I was too stubborn to say it.