“I really do not know when my father and I grew apart. I think it was after I started following a certain lifestyle. I love tattoos and piercings but my father never approved of it. I think every time I went in front of him he would see my tattoos and piercing and not his daughter. He never really introduced me to any of his relatives. I think he was ashamed to have me as a daughter. When he was sick, I wanted to go see him in the hospital but I always felt that he did not want me there so I never went. I did not want to cause him more pain than he was already enduring. He had cancer. But I loved him. I could never gather enough courage to go up to him and tell him. I wanted to tell him what I did was not to hurt him. One day while I was at a friend’s house I got a call from my mother. It was Father’s day. She was crying and said that my father’s health had worsened and that he wished to see me. It was the first time that my father had asked for me. So I got a “Happy Father’s Day” cake and rushed home. I could not hold my emotions and I cried all the way home. My father had called for me, you know. It was a big deal for me. I reached home to see my father in bed. He could hardly speak, but he said, ‘Daughter, I love you and I want you to look after your mother. I am dying.’ We both cried for hours and later that night he passed away. I did not know he loved me. I never did. And I never got to tell him that I love him. I never got to tell him that I am sorry.”