When I finally sat beside my dad’s hospital bed, I noticed details I had always ignored: the deep lines on 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. I couldn’t hold back anymore. I apologized through tears, admitting how unfair I had been and how little I had understood. He didn’t blame me. He simply told me that he had always wanted me to have a better life, even if that meant he went without.