A Promise Left Unspoken

I always told myself I’d look after him. My dad. My hero. The one who showed me how to move through the world. As a kid, I watched him work himself to the bone, smile through it anyway, and I made this quiet promise: one day, I’d make things easier for him. I’d pay him back for everything—the lost sleep, the sacrifices, the tears he pretended I didn’t see. I swore he’d never feel alone, not as long as I was around.

I thought I had time. Years, even. I figured there’d be a moment to prove those promises weren’t empty, to show him I meant every word.

But life doesn’t care about your plans.

It felt like any other day. I got up early, planning to make him breakfast, maybe tease him a little, get him to laugh. On my way home, I picked up his favorite snack—the one he always tried to hide, acting all grumpy when I found it. I actually caught myself smiling, thinking about how easy it is to make someone happy when you love them.

Then I found him before I even made it through the door. Still. Quiet. Already gone.

I can’t tell you the exact second my knees gave out. I barely remember the scream, just this emptiness that settled in and hasn’t left since. The man I promised to protect, the one I was supposed to care for… gone. Just like that. Gone before I could say I loved him that morning. Gone before I could keep the promise I’d been carrying all these years.

I sat with him for hours, it seemed, talking, begging him to wake up. I don’t even remember what I said. It’s the silence I remember, answering me, louder than anything.

I keep replaying the things I never managed to say. I wanted to tell him how much I noticed—the patience, the quiet strength, the way he showed love in a thousand small acts. I wanted him to know I saw him, really saw him. That I understood the dreams he set aside just for me. That I’d always try to be someone he could be proud of.

Now, all I have is memory and guilt and this pain that feels endless.

That morning keeps looping in my head: sunlight coming through the window, the smell of rain, birds outside. I keep thinking—I should have been there. I should’ve done more. All those should haves, and none of them matter anymore.

I’m angry. At life. At fate. At myself, for missing the signs, for not doing enough. But mostly, I’m crushed by the love I can’t give him anymore.

I think about everything we’ll never share: showing him how to use his phone, taking him to see the places he always talked about, lazy Sunday meals together. I’ll never hear his laugh again, never feel his hand steady on my shoulder, never get to hear, “You’ll be fine, son. You’ve got this.” I missed my shot to tell him I loved him enough to make him proud.

I don’t really know how to move forward. Part of me wants to sink into the pain and just stay there. But another part knows he’d hate that. He’d want me to live—really live. To carry his memory by being kind, by staying strong, by loving people even when it hurts.

So I’m writing this down. I need to get it out. I need to put words to this emptiness, to the love, to the grief that just won’t go away. Even if he can’t hear me, I want him to know—I’m going to try. I’ll try to live in a way that honors him, to keep his lessons and his love alive in me.

I’ll care for the people I have. I’ll try to be patient. I’ll love hard. I’ll hold on to the ones who are still here, because I know how quickly things can change. I’ll make his memory part of who I am.

But God, I wish I could have done it for him while he was still here.

I wish I’d hugged him one more time. I wish I’d said, “I love you, Dad,” just once more. I wish I could have shown him that my promises weren’t just words—they mattered.

This grief is part of me now. So is the guilt. I have to find a way to carry it without letting it break me. Somehow, I will. Because if I don’t, then all the good he did, all the love he gave—would just disappear.

So I promise, even now, even with my heart in pieces: I’ll carry him with me. In what I do, in how I love, in every choice. I’ll honor him by living the way he tried to teach me—bravely, with love, with everything I’ve got.

I couldn’t take care of him the way I wanted to. But I’ll carry him with me, always.