Leaving my father in a nursing home was one of the hardest decisions I ever had to make. As a single mother working two jobs to make ends meet, I simply couldn’t do it all—caring for both my daughter and him was beyond my ability.
I visited whenever I could, but time always seemed to slip away. Each time I saw him, he would ask, “When am I coming home?” and I would gently say, “Soon, Dad. I just need to figure things out.” The reality was, there was nothing to figure out. Every extra shift I worked went toward his care, leaving me with little time to do more. It pained me to know that he spent more time with the staff than with me.
One evening, I received a call. “You should come now,” the nurse said in a soft tone.
I rushed over, my daughter’s small hand in mine. My father looked so frail, weaker than I had ever seen him. I sat beside him, holding his hand, whispering how much I loved him and how sorry I was for not doing more. His eyes held something I couldn’t quite understand.
Before his last breath, he gently squeezed my hand. His voice, though faint, was steady: “Go… check the trunk in my old shed. You need to know… the truth.”
His gaze briefly shifted to my daughter, standing quietly at the foot of his bed. Despite her young age, she seemed to grasp the weight of the moment. My father gave her a small, warm smile, then looked back at me. With one final exhale, he was gone.
Time stood still. My father, my role model, was gone. My daughter, sensing my sorrow, placed her tiny hand on my arm, offering quiet comfort.
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