I hit play. “Your father has taken a turn. He’s asking for you. Please come.” It didn’t make sense—he hadn’t asked for me in years. But guilt pushed me. I packed a bag and drove to the facility. This time, they let me in.

He looked small, frail. But his eyes? Still sharp. “You look ready to run,” he said. I sat beside him. We spoke—awkwardly at first. About Mom. My brother. Us. He told me he was proud, even if he didn’t understand my path. Then he held my hand and said he’d always loved me. I told him I’d never stopped loving him either.

Two weeks later, my brother called. Dad had passed quietly in his sleep. I cried harder than I expected—not just for the loss, but for the reconciliation.

At his funeral, I wished I’d known more of him sooner. But I’m grateful we found our way back. It’s never too late. Reach out.