“He always said his son came first,” the man told me quietly.
Each sentence felt like a weight pressing on my chest.
In that sterile hallway, I finally saw my father clearly—not as the man who couldn’t give me more, but as the man who gave me everything he had.
When I finally sat beside my dad’s hospital bed, I noticed details I had always ignored: the deep lines in his face, the roughness of his hands, the exhaustion etched into his posture even as he slept.
For the first time, I understood that his life hadn’t been small or unsuccessful. It had been consumed by responsibility and sacrifice. He had chosen stability over comfort, presence over ambition.
When he woke up, he tried to reassure me, saying everything would be fine.
