I’m 27 now, and for the last two years, I’ve been living with a quiet kind of guilt I can’t shake off. I lost my dad suddenly in 2023 — a heart attack that came out of nowhere. He was only 56, and I was supposed to call him that evening. I didn’t.
We weren’t fighting or anything dramatic like that. Life had just gotten busy. I’d moved across the country for work, and our conversations had turned into quick “How’s work?” “You eating okay?” exchanges. I always thought I’d have more time to tell him the things that really mattered.
That night, I was out with friends when my mom called. I almost didn’t answer — the music was loud, and I figured it could wait. But I picked up, and all I remember is her voice breaking as she said, “It’s your dad.”
The next few days were a blur of airports, tears, and hospital corridors that still smelled like antiseptic and despair. He was already gone when I got there. I remember standing in that cold hospital room, staring at his face, and realizing that all the words I’d never said — thank you, I love you, I’m sorry — were now trapped inside me forever.
My dad wasn’t perfect, but he was the kind of man who showed love in small, quiet ways. He wasn’t the “I love you” type, but he’d drive three hours to help me move apartments. He’d wake up early to shovel snow from my car before work when I was visiting home. He never missed a single one of my baseball games growing up.
When I think of him now, it’s always the little moments that come flooding back. The way he’d hum old Eagles songs while fixing stuff around the house. The smell of his aftershave in the mornings. The time he taught me how to drive and didn’t even yell when I scraped the car.
After the funeral, I found his old toolbox in the garage. Inside, there was a note folded up under the screwdrivers. It just said, “For Jake — fix what you can.” That was it. No long message, no emotional goodbye. Just six words that somehow hit harder than anything else ever could.
I keep that note in my wallet now. Every time I’m struggling, I take it out and read it. “Fix what you can.” It reminds me that maybe that’s all any of us can do. We can’t fix everything — we can’t fix death, time, or all the things left unsaid. But we can try to fix what’s still within reach.
I’ve started calling my mom every week now, no matter how tired or busy I am. I tell my friends I love them more. I even picked up my dad’s old hobby — woodworking. There’s something about sanding down rough edges that feels almost healing.
I guess what I’m trying to say is: don’t wait. Don’t assume you have time. Say the things you mean, even if it feels awkward or too soon. Because one day, you’ll wish you had.
I still miss him every day. Some nights, I dream he’s sitting at the kitchen table, sipping coffee, looking up and saying, “Morning, kid.” And for a moment, everything feels normal again — until I wake up.
And that’s the hardest part. Waking up.
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