A Father's Quiet Plea — Before I Go

@SereneLee

Written from the perspective of the elderly father, as if he were speaking his heart to his children and to the world - touching on pain, loneliness, and a longing for connection. 

Even a man who has failed in love still longs for it in his final days.

"Sometimes you will never know the value of a moment until it becomes a memory.  Some days, I sit quietly in the corner of the room, pretending I am dozing off - but really, I am listening…... hoping to hear my name, hoping someone remembers I am still here.

I know...... I am not a good husband to your mother. I wasn’t there when your mother cried through her pregnancy. I didn’t hold her hand enough. I didn’t see how lonely she was when she needed me the most. I was young, foolish, and blinded by my own mistakes. When your mother left this world too soon, I lost more than a partner......I lost my way, I disappeared too—not from the earth, but from your lives. And I know I wasn’t the father you needed - not the kind that sat with you through your homework, or tucked you in at night, or held your hand when life felt scary. I didn’t know how to raise children on my own, so I buried myself in work, in silence, in distractions. I left you all to grow up without the warmth you deserved.  I missed too many moments, and now...... the silence between us weighs heavier than words.

I wish I could tell you I didn’t mean to. That I was grieving. That I didn’t know how to love when my heart was broken. But you were just a child. You didn’t need explanations. You needed me. And I wasn’t there. I am trying every means to find another mother for you, to take care of your well-being. So, I married again, hoping someone else could fill the void I left behind. I was wrong. I thought having another adult in the house meant you would be cared for. I didn’t see the bruises, the fear in your eyes, or the way you shrank into silence. I missed the nights you went to bed hungry or crying, and the moments you stood at the stove, too small to reach the pot but too hungry to wait.

You mastered survival far too young.

You learned to read expressions, to tiptoe around pain, to please others just to avoid punishment. You learned that silence was safer than honesty. And in that silence, you buried the child you were meant to be.

I thought you were fine because you didn’t complain. I didn’t ask questions because I was afraid of the answers.

When I came home, I saw only what I wanted to see. But you saw everything - too much, too early. It was after so many years that I realised how foolish I was at that time - You saw a man who fathered children but didn’t father their hearts. And for that, I will forever be sorry.

As such, I carry a weight I don’t speak about… but it never leaves me. I wish I had been brave enough to be the father you needed.

But children, I am still your father. I am still trying.

Now, years later, my steps are slower, my hands tremble, and my thoughts sometimes slip through the cracks like water from a broken jug.  I have grown old. I forget things. I misplace my appointments; I ask the same questions more than once. I sometimes leave a mess behind… not because I don’t care, but because my mind is slipping. It is terrifying, you know? To slowly lose pieces of yourself - and worse, to see the people you love pulling further away. And yet, what I never forget… is each of you.

Some of you or maybe your partner, sees me as a burden. I hear those sighs, I feel the coldness in the air. I know I make things difficult. But believe me, I am trying to hold myself together. I smile even when my heart aches. I laugh even when I am scared. I keep cheerful and laugh at my own clumsiness, pretend I don’t notice when the grandchildren or your spouse are hurried away or when my presence becomes an inconvenience. I try to stay out of the way, try to make myself small… but I am still here. I am still alive. And I still feel everything.

When you pass me around like an old item no one wants to keep - from one house to another....... I don’t say a word. I understand. I am not easy to live with. But when I leave your house, I don’t go to a friend’s home or a community centre. I wander. I sit on benches, pretending to see my phone or read newspapers. I walk through malls with nowhere to go. I watch families laugh and eat together, and I wonder what it would be like if I were wanted, just for a meal, just for a while. There are no family dinners anymore, no reunions, no festive gatherings like before. Disputes, anger, resentment….. I wish I could undo it all, but I can’t.

But I am thankful, too. Some of you still call and care. Some of you eat with me, bring me out for a short walk, sit beside me at the clinic, even when the wait is long. You don’t know how much those moments mean to me. In a life filled with regrets, those tiny kindnesses feel like sunlight through storm clouds.

Now, the doctor says I have cancer — stage four. The kind that doesn’t wait too long. I am afraid… but more than that, I am aching to be close to you. I don’t need much. Just your time. Your presence. Let me hold my grandchildren’s hands again. Let me laugh with you, or just sit beside you without feeling like I am in the way.

Before I go, I want to be a better father than I ever was. I want you to know...... even if I never said it enough - I love you all. I always did. I just didn’t know how to show it.

So, if you are reading this, if you have ever felt angry at me, ashamed of me, or burdened by me...... I understand. But please, if there is still a little room left in your heart, let me be near you. Let me die as a father surrounded by love, not as an old man left alone with his guilt. Because even a broken heart still remembers how to love.

And if you ever feel a whisper in your heart, it is not the wind.

It is me, saying I am sorry.