My Father Abandoned Me for Years — Now He’s Dying, I Read His Journal but Refused to Forgive
“You think your illness makes this easier?” I shouted, and my voice struck the cold walls. He reached for me with shaking hands, and the bed rails rattled under his weak grip. His eyes shifted with rising fear, and the moment pushed everything towards a breaking point.
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He tried to speak, but his voice caught in his throat. The monitor released uneven beeps that pushed tension higher in the room. “I need you to listen,” he whispered, and his chest rose in tight bursts.
“I have listened for years,” I replied, and anger burned through every breath. His lips trembled as he glanced at the journal beside him.
“There are things you don’t know,” he murmured, and his fingers brushed the edge of the cover. “I know enough,” I answered, and my hands curled because I refused to reach for it. He released a slow breath and closed his eyes.
“I wrote everything down,” he muttered, and his voice cracked again. “I don’t want your words,” I replied, and my throat tightened. He opened his eyes and looked at me with a desperate stare.
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“Please,” he whispered, and his voice carried years of silence and regret. I stepped back because the truth waited on those pages, and I feared the weight.
I grew up with a father who wore charm like a bright coat. Cal spoke of new beginnings every January. He murmured, “Next year will save us,” and I believed him each time.
We drove along old highways in his rusted car as wind rushed through cracked windows. He remarked, “Life feels lighter when we chase the horizon,” and I nodded because I adored him.
Weekends passed in forests with damp soil beneath our shoes. He placed his hand on my shoulder and whispered, “Aves, listen to the night. It teaches patience.”
Crickets throbbed around us as the fire snapped, sparks leaping toward the sky. Smoke curled around my clothes, and the warm glow softened his tired eyes.
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He always turned stargazing into a lesson. He murmured, “You’ll carry more strength than you know one day.” I asked, “Will things get easier for you?” He smiled and replied, “I’m working on it,” though his voice shook. I held that promise for years.
His decline arrived quietly. One morning, I found him at the kitchen table with his head in his hands. A cold cup of tea sat untouched beside him. He muttered, “I lost the job again,” and his voice cracked. Fear rose inside me.
I asked, “What happens now?” He answered, “Trust me,” yet he looked away.
His disappearances followed. He left with his guitar and returned with excuses that smelled of exhaustion and long nights.
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I waited on the couch once, and he walked in at dawn. I asked, “Where were you?”
He replied, “I needed time,” and his tone sounded hollow. I touched the sleeve of his coat and felt damp fabric. Rainwater dripped onto the floor, and tension tightened the air.
At fifteen, he stood in my doorway and whispered, “I’m sorry,” with no explanation. His eyes looked red and restless. I told him, “I can’t keep guessing,” and my voice shook. He sat on the edge of my bed and vowed, “I’m trying to be better,” though fear clouded his face.
His apologies filled the years like scattered notes. He hugged me once after weeks away and murmured, “I don’t want you to give up on me.”
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I whispered, “I won’t,” because I still held hope for the father who pointed at constellations. I carried that hope into adulthood. I carried it even when it hurt.
My mother phoned me late at night. Her voice carried a sharp tremble. She murmured, “Your father is very sick.” A cold wave slid down my spine. I asked, “What happened now?” She paused and added, “He can’t stand. He needs help.” The silence that followed felt heavy.
The doctor explained the diagnosis under harsh white lights. He stated, “His immune system is attacking his muscles.”
I pressed my back against the wall, and the surface felt icy. The hallway smelled of disinfectant, and the metallic scent clung to my throat. He continued, “He will need full-time support,” and the words settled like stones.
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When I entered his room, he lifted his head slowly. He murmured, “Avery, I know I broke you.” His voice scraped through the air. My chest tightened. I replied, “Please don’t start with that.” He reached for my hand, but I stepped back.
He whispered, “I want a chance to fix us.” His breath rattled, and faint sweat gathered across his forehead. I answered, “You had chances. You walked away every time.” Tears filled his eyes and slid toward his pillow. The monitor beeped again in steady beats.
My mother pulled me aside later. She told me, “He’s dying. You should make peace.” I watched her fingers twist around each other. I asked, “Peace for who?” She whispered, “Both of you,” but her gaze avoided mine.
Each visit drained me. He muttered, “I regret because of the pain I gave you.” I replied, “You gave pain because it was easy.”
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He shook his head slowly. His voice dropped to a whisper. “I never meant to hurt you.” My jaw tightened.
One afternoon, light from the window formed a bright stripe across the floor. Dust floated in the beam. I touched the side of his bed, and the metal felt cold. He murmured, “I waited for the right time to come back.” I answered, “There was no right time. You just didn’t come.”
He stared at the ceiling and admitted, “I feared becoming a burden.” His voice trembled, and his fingers twitched against the sheet.
He asked me once, “Did you ever despise me?” I looked at him and replied, “I despised the choices you made.” He nodded weakly and murmured, “I can live with that.” His breath came short and unsteady. Heat rose in my face.
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During another visit, the room smelled of bleach and stale air. He whispered, “I need you more now,” and guilt stabbed at my ribs. I answered, “You always needed someone. Never yourself.”
His mouth quivered. He shut his eyes and murmured, “I know.” A long silence stretched between us.
His decline accelerated. He struggled to lift his cup, and the tremors in his hands grew worse. I took the cup from him once. He murmured, “Thank you,” and his voice cracked. I replied, “Don’t read into it.” His eyes lowered. The air felt thick around us.
His voice grew weaker each week. I watched him struggle to breathe through tight gasps. The sound rattled through the room with each inhale.
He reached for the bed rail and whispered, “I don’t want to keep hurting you.” I answered, “You already did.” His face tightened from pain or guilt. I couldn’t tell.
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One day, rain tapped against the window, and the soft rhythm filled the room. I sat in the corner, and he urged, “Come closer, please.” I hesitated but moved my chair a bit nearer.
His blanket felt rough when I adjusted it for him. He whispered, “You were the best part of my life.” The words floated between us like smoke. I replied, “That never stopped you from leaving.”
He winced and admitted, “I thought distance kept you safe from my mess.” Shock cut through me. “Safe?” I asked. “You left me to clean up what you dropped.” His eyes widened with shame. “I didn’t see the damage then,” he whispered. I answered, “You still don’t.”
My mother returned that evening. She stated, “He talks about you constantly.” I replied, “That doesn’t change anything.” She crossed her arms and muttered, “You carry anger like armour.”
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I stared at the floor and answered, “Armour kept me alive.” She sighed and walked out.
During another visit, the room hummed with the low buzz of machines. My father murmured, “I know you think I came to you only because I’m dying.” I stared at his pale hands. “You did,” I replied.
“You always came when you needed saving.” He winced and whispered, “I want to face you. Not hide.” I answered, “You hid your whole life. That’s the truth.”
He turned his head toward the window. Light leaked around the curtains and touched his cheek. He whispered, “I deserve your anger.” I stated, “I don’t want to spend my life carrying it.”
He nodded slightly. “I hope you drop it one day,” he murmured. I replied, “I’ll decide that with time. Not with pressure.”
His condition worsened, and the nurses struggled to move him without causing pain. I watched them lift him. His breath caught in sharp cries. Nausea twisted inside me.
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He whispered, “Don’t look away.”
He stared at me with glassy eyes. “I want you here,”. Heat built behind my eyes. “Wanting doesn’t change history,” I replied.
He coughed violently one morning. The sound shook the entire room. I reached for a tissue and held it near him. His fingers grazed mine. “Thank you, Aves,” he murmured. I pulled my hand back. “Don’t call me that,” I replied. He nodded and whispered, “I forgot I lost the right.”
The weeks felt like slow erosion. I watched his world shrink to that bed. I wanted to feel pity. I wanted to feel rage. Instead, I felt numb pressure sit inside my chest.
He whispered, “Tell me what you want from me.” I answered, “I want honesty.” He murmured, “I never lied about loving you.” I replied, “You lied about staying.”
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He cried once, and tears rolled into his ears. “I wish I gave you more,” he whispered. I answered, “I wish you did too.” His breath quivered as he murmured, “I’m sorry for the years you felt alone.” I stared at the floor.
Antiseptic stung my nostrils. I whispered, “I was alone because you created space for it.” A deep silence settled between us after that moment. It felt heavy and necessary.
I returned one afternoon and found a leather journal on his bedside table. The cover looked cracked, and the pages were bent at the corners. I asked, “What’s this?” He whispered, “My truth. Take it.” His voice trembled with fear.
My fingers brushed the worn texture. It felt soft in some places and stiff in others. I opened the first page, and the faint smell of old paper drifted upward.
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The handwriting looked shaky in early entries, then steadier, then messy again. I read lines aloud. “I fear I will ruin her life if I stay.” His eyes glistened. I asked, “You wrote this about me?” He nodded weakly.
I turned another page. “I left because I couldn’t face my failures,” I read. He murmured, “I was ashamed.” My throat tightened. “You still left,” I replied. He whispered, “I never stopped thinking about you.” My hands shook as I held the journal.
I found an entry from years ago. “She deserves a father who stands. I keep falling.” I read it slowly. My voice wavered. He shut his eyes. “I always knew you resented me,” he whispered. I answered, “I didn’t resent you. I resented being abandoned.”
The later entries grew desperate. “I fear my daughter will not forgive me. I don’t expect her to. I only want her to live free from my shadow.” My chest felt tight.
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He watched me read every word. His breathing grew shallow. He whispered, “I wrote the truth because I wanted you to see me.”
I closed the journal gently. “You thought writing this would fix us?” I asked. He shook his head. “No,” he whispered. “I hoped it would show you I knew the damage.” My pulse beat hard. “This doesn’t erase anything,” I replied.
“I know,” he whispered. “I only want you to carry less weight.”
I visited him the next day with the journal in my hands. The room felt warmer than usual. Late sunlight slipped through the blinds and drew thin lines across the bed. He looked weaker. His lips appeared dry. His fingers twitched slightly on the blanket.
I sat beside him and opened the journal. “I’ll read some parts to you,” I murmured. His eyes widened. He nodded slowly. I turned a page. “You wrote that you feared becoming a burden,” I read. He whispered, “I did.” I replied, “You became one anyway. But I see the truth in it.”
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I read another line. “I want a second chance, but I don’t deserve one.” His breath hitched. He murmured, “I meant that.” I answered, “I’m not here to forgive you.” His eyes closed, and a tear rolled down his temple. “I know,” he whispered. I added, “But I’m here. That’s all I can give.”
His voice cracked. “That’s enough.” The words trembled from his lips. My fingers brushed his wrist, and his skin felt warm and fragile. I whispered, “I’m willing to be seen. Not to forget.” He nodded. “Thank you,” he murmured. His voice carried relief and grief in equal measure.
We sat in silence for several minutes. The beeping softened into a steady rhythm. He whispered, “Will you live your life without my mistakes on your back?” I answered, “I’ll try.” He murmured, “Good. You deserve that.”
I stood to leave. He whispered, “Avery… I’m proud of you.” The words struck me harder than expected.
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“You didn’t raise me,” I replied. “But I raised myself.” He nodded weakly. “And you did well,” he murmured. That moment felt soft and sharp at once.
I walked into the hallway and took a long breath. The air smelled faintly of hand sanitiser and warm linen. I pressed my hand against the wall and let the weight settle. I knew the past would not disappear. I knew forgiveness would not arrive soon. But I felt the first shift inside me.
I returned home and placed the journal on my table. The room felt quiet. I sat down and let the weight of everything settle in my chest. Years of confusion and anger layered through my body. I realised I could not edit my history, but I could shape what came next.
I thought about his words. I thought about the long years where silence took the place of love. I thought about the version of him that lived in memories and the version that withered in a hospital bed. Both versions shaped me. Both versions left marks that I now needed to understand.
I started therapy because I wanted to untangle the knots he left behind.
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Healing did not mean defending him. Healing meant choosing myself after years of waiting for someone who could not stay.
I understood that closure does not always come from forgiveness. Sometimes closure comes from truth, boundaries, and distance.
He taught me one final lesson without meaning to: love without accountability becomes harm. And harm lingers until we name it. I now carry his story without carrying his guilt.
I can face the past with steady breath because it no longer owns me. Healing has taken a different shape, and I am learning to live inside it.
This story is inspired by the real experiences of our readers. We believe that every story carries a lesson that can bring light to others. To protect everyone’s privacy, our editors may change names, locations, and certain details while keeping the heart of the story true. Images are for illustration only. If you’d like to share your own experience, please contact us via email.
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