Home Home I HADN’T SPOKEN TO MY DAD IN 6 YEARS—NOW I CAN ONLY SEE HIM THROUGH GLASS He used to call me his little girl, even when I was pushing thirty and had my own apartment across town. We were close—really close—until we weren’t. Six years ago, we had a fight. A stupid one, if I’m being honest. It started over politics, but underneath that was grief, control, and two people who didn’t know how to speak the same language anymore. I slammed the door on him that day. Neither of us reached out after. And then came the call. A woman from the facility told me he’d been admitted a month ago. Early signs of dementia, and then pneumonia hit. They were short-staffed. No visitors allowed inside. I didn’t even know he’d left his house. I drove there the next morning, heart racing like I was pulling up to some courtroom instead of a nursing home. When he saw me outside his window, he just stared. I waved. He blinked. And then, slowly, he sat up. That second picture? That’s the first time we’d touched in over half a decade. Glass or not, it broke me. He didn’t say much—couldn’t really—but he lifted his hand, and I matched it with mine. I told him I was sorry. I don’t even know if he heard me, or understood what I meant. But he closed his eyes, just for a moment, like he was holding something sacred. I didn’t tell anyone I went. Not my brother, not even my partner. And now I’ve got a voicemail from the nurse that I still haven’t listened to. I don’t know if I’m ready to hear what it says. (continue reading in the first cᴑmment

I HADN’T SPOKEN TO MY DAD IN 6 YEARS—NOW I CAN ONLY SEE HIM THROUGH GLASS He used to call me his little girl, even when I was pushing thirty and had my own apartment across town. We were close—really close—until we weren’t. Six years ago, we had a fight. A stupid one, if I’m being honest. It started over politics, but underneath that was grief, control, and two people who didn’t know how to speak the same language anymore. I slammed the door on him that day. Neither of us reached out after. And then came the call. A woman from the facility told me he’d been admitted a month ago. Early signs of dementia, and then pneumonia hit. They were short-staffed. No visitors allowed inside. I didn’t even know he’d left his house. I drove there the next morning, heart racing like I was pulling up to some courtroom instead of a nursing home. When he saw me outside his window, he just stared. I waved. He blinked. And then, slowly, he sat up. That second picture? That’s the first time we’d touched in over half a decade. Glass or not, it broke me. He didn’t say much—couldn’t really—but he lifted his hand, and I matched it with mine. I told him I was sorry. I don’t even know if he heard me, or understood what I meant. But he closed his eyes, just for a moment, like he was holding something sacred. I didn’t tell anyone I went. Not my brother, not even my partner. And now I’ve got a voicemail from the nurse that I still haven’t listened to. I don’t know if I’m ready to hear what it says. (continue reading in the first cᴑmment

Home admin · April 16, 2025 · Comments off

It’s Never Too Late to Forgive

After a fight six years ago, my dad and I stopped speaking. What started as a disagreement became

a wall built from grief and silence. Then I got a call—he was in a care facility, sick with dementia and pneumonia.

I visited through the glass. We hadn’t spoken in years, but when I raised my hand, he did too.

I apologized, not knowing if he understood. Days later, I got another call—he was asking for me.

When I finally saw him, frail but clear-eyed, we talked—about family, life, and love. He said he was proud of me. I told him I never stopped loving him.

Two weeks later, he passed. I cried not just for the loss, but for the time we almost lost. But we found each other again, just in time.

Forgiveness isn’t forgetting—it’s reaching out. Don’t wait. Make the call.

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