I never knew my mother, only that she had died young, and my father, a quiet and distant man, never spoke of her. I longed for his love, but he rarely acknowledged me, and by the time I was 18, I believed he hated me.

The truth came in the cruelest way during a party he hosted for his business associates. I spoke with a woman I knew slightly, and when my father walked by, I smiled at him, but he immediately looked away. The woman then asked, “Do you know why he hates you?”

Confused, I denied it, but she revealed, “He believes you killed your mother, Karen.”

Shocked, I turned to my grandmother for answers. She admitted my mother had died in childbirth but told me my father had asked her never to speak of it. Furious, I confronted my father, demanding to know the truth. He coldly replied, “Your mother’s death is none of your business.”

Devastated, I ran out, driving aimlessly until I was in a car accident. I woke up in the hospital, with my father at my side. He apologized, explaining that he had blamed himself for my mother’s death.

“We were poor, and I wasn’t there for her when she needed me,” he said. “I became successful to make up for it, but I couldn’t bear seeing you look like her. Every time I saw you, I felt grief and guilt.”

He confessed his love for me, and for the first time, he held me in his arms. It was a new beginning for us, and I believed my mother was smiling down from heaven.

This story teaches us that holding onto the past can prevent us from moving forward. Only by confronting the truth can we heal and start anew.