When I was finally allowed to sit beside my father’s hospital bed, I noticed things I had ignored for years. The deep lines etched into his face. The calloused hands that rested motionless on the sheets. The exhaustion that seemed permanent, even in sleep. It struck me then that his life hadn’t been small or unsuccessful—it had been shaped by sacrifice. He had chosen presence over ambition, stability over comfort. When he woke and tried to reassure me, telling me everything would be fine, I broke. I apologized through tears, admitting how unfair and blind I had been. He didn’t scold me or defend himself. He simply said he had always wanted me to have a better life, even if it meant he went without.
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