The Last Apology

The phone buzzed at 2:13 a.m. I saw “Mom” flashing on the screen, and my heart sank. Calls at that hour were never good news.

I picked up with a half-whispered, “Hello?”

Her voice was shaky, “It’s Dad... he’s gone.”

For a second, I couldn’t breathe. My mind flooded with images—his laugh, his stubbornness, the way he always called me “kiddo” even when I turned 30.

But one memory clung like a thorn: the last time we spoke, we argued.

Three weeks ago, he told me I was wasting time chasing music, that I should get a “real job.” I fired back, said he never supported me, never believed in me.

He tried to explain, said he was scared for me, that he just wanted me to be safe.

But I didn’t listen.

I hung up without saying goodbye.

And now, I’d never get the chance.

The funeral was a blur. Faces blurred by tears. I kept replaying our fight in my mind like a song stuck on repeat.

When it ended, Mom handed me a small envelope. My name, in his handwriting.

Inside was a note:

"I don’t say it enough, but I’m proud of you. Always have been. I just didn’t know how to say it right. Love you, kiddo."

I broke.

Right there, in the parking lot, the apology I owed him spilled out of my mouth into the silence.

It’s been a year.

I still chase music, still dream—but now with a deeper fire. Every lyric I write, every note I play carries a piece of him.

If I could go back, I’d say sorry. I’d listen. I’d hug him tighter.

But life doesn’t give you replays. Only lessons.

So now, I say the words that matter.

I forgive quicker.

I hold on longer.

And I never leave love unspoken.

Because you never know which goodbye will be the last.