The More You Delay, the Deeper Your Regret Will Become

The More You Delay, the Deeper Your Regret Will BecomeRaina Kapoor had built her life around precision — schedules, deadlines, goals. As a senior marketing executive at a leading firm in Mumbai, she was known for her discipline and consistency. What she was not known for was pausing.

Her father, once a history professor, often teased her about it. “You’re always racing somewhere, beta,” he’d say during their rare phone calls. “Just make sure you know where you’re running.”

She would laugh lightly. “I’ll slow down soon, Papa. Just a few more months until this project wraps up.

He would respond with his familiar warmth, “The more you delay, the deeper your regret will become.”

It sounded philosophical then — something he said to make her think. But life has a way of giving meaning to words only after they’ve already come true.

The call came on a Tuesday morning, just before a client presentation. Her mother’s voice trembled on the other end.

“Raina, your father has been hospitalized. It’s his heart again. You should come home.”

Raina froze. Her father had faced mild cardiac issues before, but he had always recovered quickly. She assured her mother she would come soon — right after her meeting.

“This presentation could change everything for me,” she told herself. “He’ll be fine. He always is.”

The next two days blurred into meetings, strategy sessions, and corporate dinners. Raina’s phone buzzed with updates from her mother, each one more urgent than the last. But she kept promising, Tomorrow. I’ll go tomorrow.

By Friday morning, she finally booked her flight. She packed quickly, silencing the unease in her chest. But before she could leave for the airport, her phone rang again.

It was her mother. The silence on the line was enough.

“He’s gone, Raina,” her mother whispered.

The world went still. The flight, the presentation, the deadlines — everything seemed absurdly meaningless.

At the funeral, Raina sat beside her mother, clutching a folded letter her father had written days before his death. His handwriting was shaky but familiar.

My dear Raina,

If you are reading this, I may not have had the chance to tell you how proud I am. You’ve always been the brave one, chasing dreams beyond my imagination. But remember, life is not just about achievement — it’s about presence. Success will wait. Time will not.

Love, Papa.

She read it again and again, the words searing themselves into her mind. The room was filled with relatives offering condolences, but all she could hear was his voice — calm, kind, and gone.

Over the next few weeks, she stayed with her mother in their small hometown. Every corner of the house carried his memory: his spectacles by the window, his books stacked on the table, the half-finished crossword beside his armchair.

Her mother tried to be strong, but grief lived quietly between them. One evening, while tending to her father’s garden, her mother said softly, “He planted those marigolds for you before he fell ill. He said you’d like to see them when you visit.”

The flowers were bright and alive — a small, stubborn burst of color in the fading light. Raina knelt beside them, her tears falling onto the soil. For the first time in years, she wasn’t thinking about deadlines or targets. She was thinking about time — and how little of it she had truly given to what mattered.

When she eventually returned to Mumbai, something in her had changed. Her office desk, once buried under reports and schedules, now held her father’s letter in a simple frame.

She still worked hard — but she began to live differently. She called her mother every night. She visited friends she hadn’t seen in years. When a colleague mentioned wanting to reconcile with his estranged brother, she said quietly, “Do it now. Don’t wait.”

Her team began to notice a gentler tone in her leadership, a sense of empathy that hadn’t been there before. She no longer glorified delay as diligence. She understood that waiting too long to live, love, or forgive only carved deeper wounds.

Years later, as she walked through a park on a rare free afternoon, she saw marigolds blooming along the path. She stopped, smiled faintly, and whispered to the wind,

“You were right, Papa. The more you delay, the deeper your regret becomes.”

And for the first time in her life, she wasn’t in a hurry anymore.