(voice trembling with anger and hurt)
You weren’t there. You never were. Do you even realize what that did to me?
When Mom was sick, when she was dying—dying, Dad—I was the one holding her hand. I was the one wiping her tears. Not you. You were off doing God knows what, like she didn’t matter, like I didn’t matter.
And then she was gone. Just like that. And you showed up at the funeral like some ghost from the past, like that made it okay. Like being there for one goddamn day could erase years of absence.
I needed you. I needed my father. Not just when it was convenient for you. I needed you when I was crying myself to sleep at twelve years old because I didn’t know how to be strong for her. I needed you when I had to sign the paperwork, when I had to decide how to say goodbye to my own mother. Alone.
You left me to pick up the pieces while you disappeared. So don’t you dare come back now and pretend like you care. You weren’t there when it counted. And you can’t fix that with a few empty apologies.
