I never saw my mom—Dad never said a word about her. Any questions I had were just shut down with “You don’t need to know!” So, I lost my mom, and I never got a real dad: no hugs, no love, not even a part of his time. He was fine with the others, so it felt like the problem was with me.
So, there was a company party, right? I was chatting with his partner. My dad walked by, and I just smiled at him. He shot me this icy glare—super creepy. This woman next to me noticed.
She: “He hasn’t told you why he hates you?”
Me: “Hey, my dad doesn’t hate me!”
She: “Oh, come on! Weird he never told you. It all started years ago.”
When this woman told me the story, my heart felt like it stopped. HOW COULD HE NOT TELL ME?!
I grew up thinking my father blamed me for my mother’s death, but the truth was far more heartbreaking.
My mother died young, and my father never spoke of her. He was distant, leaving me desperate for his love. By 18, I was convinced he hated me.
At a party, a woman cruelly revealed that my father believed I’d caused my mother’s death during childbirth. Devastated, I confronted my grandmother and my father. He admitted his pain but denied blaming me. Instead, he blamed himself for not being there when she passed.
Overwhelmed, I drove off, only to get into an accident. Waking up in the hospital, I found my father by my side. For the first time, he confessed his love, explaining that my resemblance to my mother had reopened old wounds. It took nearly losing me for him to realize his mistakes.
That moment marked a new beginning for us. Together, we let go of the past and embraced the love we’d both been longing for.
This story teaches us that clinging to pain can rob us of the present. The truth, though difficult, can heal and lead to a brighter future. Share this story to inspire others.
