Leaving my father in a nursing facility remains the hardest choice I’ve ever had to make. As a single mother working two jobs, there was simply no way I could care for both my daughter and him at once.
Whenever I found time to visit, his first question was always, “When am I coming home?” And I would answer with a gentle lie: “Soon, Dad. I just have to sort out a few things.” The truth was, there was nothing to sort out. I could barely handle the nursing home costs as it was. Every extra shift I worked went straight to paying his bills. It broke my heart, realizing the nursing staff spent more time with him than I could.
One evening, the phone rang. The voice on the line, softer than usual, said, “You should come now.” I hurried over, my daughter’s small fingers entwined with mine. When I arrived, he looked frail—smaller than I ever remembered. I held his hand and whispered how much I loved him, apologizing for not doing more. His eyes were filled with an emotion I couldn’t completely read.
Just before his final breath, he spoke. With unexpected strength, he gripped my hand. His voice was faint but sure:
“Go… check the trunk in my old shed. You need to know… the truth.”
His gaze drifted to my daughter, who stood at the foot of the bed, somehow grasping the weight of the moment. He gave her a gentle smile, then turned back to me. One quiet, rattling exhale later, he was gone.
For an instant, time seemed to stand still. I couldn’t absorb it—my dad, the person who guided me through so much, now lay peacefully in front of me. My daughter must have sensed my heartbreak because she lightly placed her hand on my arm, a small gesture that anchored me to reality again.
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