Six years ago, a fight over politics and grief drove a wedge between my dad and me. We didn’t speak after I stormed out. Then, a call came: he was in a nursing home with dementia and pneumonia. I drove there, heart pounding, and saw him through his window. When our hands met against the glass, it shattered years of silence. I apologized, unsure if he understood, but his closed eyes held something sacred.
Days later, a voicemail said he was worse and asking for me. Guilt pushed me back. Inside his room, he looked frail but his eyes were sharp. “Why’d you come?” he asked. We talked for hours—about Mom’s death, our fight, my life. He admitted his stubbornness; I laughed, seeing mine mirrored. He held my hand, saying he never stopped loving me. I said it back.
Two weeks later, he passed away. At his funeral, stories of his kindness filled me with regret but also gratitude. We’d reconciled just in time. Forgiveness isn’t forgetting—it’s moving forward. If you’re holding resentment, reach out. Life’s too short to wait.
