Growing up, I believed my father blamed me for my mother’s death. He never spoke about her, and our relationship was strained. I felt he hated me, but the truth was heartbreaking.
At a party, a woman told me, “He believes you killed your mother, Karen.” Shocked, I asked my grandmother, who confirmed my mother died giving birth to me. My father overheard and insisted, “I don’t hate you, Karen, but your mother’s death is none of your business.”
Devastated, I drove off and had an accident. I woke in the hospital with my father by my side. “I don’t blame you for your mother’s death, I blame myself,” he confessed. He explained how he worked long hours and wasn’t there when she needed him.
“Daddy, how could you blame yourself?” I asked. “There was nothing you could have done!” He replied, “Each time I looked at you, my heart was torn apart by grief and guilt.”
For the first time, my father showed me he loved me, and it was a new beginning for both of us.
