My dad was sick for about two years before he died. Liver failure, which if you know anything about it, you know it's a long and ugly process. He was 58. I was 24 and working as a junior account manager at a logistics company in Columbus, living about forty minutes from my parents, close enough to help but far enough that I told myself I was busy when I didn't want to go.

Here's the thing about my dad that matters for this story. He was not an easy person. He wasn't abusive or anything like that, but he had this way of making you feel like you were always slightly failing him. Never said he was proud of you directly. Always a 'yeah but' after any good news. My whole childhood was basically me trying to get a straight compliment out of this man and never quite landing it. I loved him enormously and he drove me absolutely insane and I think that's probably pretty common but it doesn't make what I did okay.

That Tuesday, I drove over because my mom called and said he'd had a bad night. When I got there he was in the hospital bed they'd set up in the living room by then, and he was having one of his more alert stretches, which happened less and less toward the end. My mom stepped out to make calls to family. It was just us.

He looked at me and the first thing he said was, "You look tired. You're not taking care of yourself."

Not hello. Not I'm glad you're here. That.

And I just. I snapped. Fourteen years of it and I snapped on this man who was dying in front of me.

I said, "That's really what you want to say to me right now? I drove forty minutes, I left work early, and that's what you've got?"

He looked surprised. He said, "I'm just saying you look tired, Marcus."

And I said, "You know what, I don't need this. I never needed this from you."

He started to say something and I just kept going. I told him he'd spent my entire life making me feel like I wasn't enough. I told him I was exhausted from trying. I told him I loved him but I didn't always like him and honestly sometimes I hated him for how he made me feel.

I said, "I hate you for that. I actually hate you for that."

He didn't yell back. He just looked at me for a second and then he looked at the ceiling and he said, very quietly, "I didn't know that."

And then my mom came back in the room and I made up some excuse about needing to take a work call and I went outside and stood in the driveway for about fifteen minutes telling myself I'd go back in and apologize once I cooled down. I'd explain what I meant. I'd tell him I loved him and the hate thing was just frustration, it wasn't real.

He died four hours later. I was back inside by then, sitting in the corner pretending to be on my phone. I was in the room. I didn't say anything else to him. I kept waiting for another alert stretch so I could fix it and it didn't come.

His last real interaction with me was me telling him I hated him.

His last words to me were "I didn't know that."

People have told me over the years that he knew I loved him. That he understood. That grief makes people say things. My therapist has been very patient with me about it. My mom, who somehow found out, told me he loved me and that one hard conversation didn't erase everything. She's probably right. I believe her on most days.

But here's what I've never said out loud until right now, typing this at 1am for strangers on the internet.

I'm not sure I said it because I was grieving. I think I said it because I'd wanted to say it for years and his dying felt like my last window to say it and still have an excuse. I think some part of me knew it was the last chance and I took it anyway. And I got what I wanted, which was to finally say the real thing, and then I lost the chance to take it back, and I have to live with the fact that I chose that.

He died not knowing if I forgave him. And I have to live with the fact that I let that happen because I was too proud and too scared to walk back inside and try.

I'm 38 now. I have a daughter who's six. When she does something that frustrates me, sometimes I catch myself starting to do the "yeah but" thing and I stop. I always stop. I don't know if that's growth or penance or both.

I just know I'm never leaving anything that important unsaid in the wrong direction again.