I wish I had the chance to say “I love you, Dad” one last time
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I wish I had the chance to say “I love you, Dad” one last time—to hold his hand and let those words fall softly between us before the silence settled in forever. It’s strange how we take time for granted, thinking there will always be another day, another moment, another chance to say the things our hearts quietly carry. But when the final goodbye comes, it leaves behind a hollow ache, a longing that words can no longer fill.
I replay our moments together in my mind—his laughter echoing in the kitchen, his quiet advice during long drives, the way he’d pat my shoulder in that unspoken language of love. He wasn’t a man of many words, but his actions said everything. Still, how I wish I had said those three simple words more often. Maybe he knew, maybe he felt it in the way I stayed close, in the way I cared for him when he grew frail. But a part of me aches with the thought that I never said it enough, never let him hear it when he could still smile and say it back.
If I could go back, I’d hold his hand longer. I’d look him in the eyes and tell him what I always felt—that he was my hero, my protector, my guide through every storm. I’d thank him for his sacrifices, for the love he gave without ever asking for anything in return. I’d whisper, “I love you, Dad,” not just once, but over and over until those words became a part of the air around us.
Now, all I can do is whisper it into the quiet nights, hoping somehow he can still hear me from wherever he is. Love doesn’t end—it just changes form. And even though I never got to say it one last time, I believe he knows. He always did. 💔
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