My Father Blamed Me for My Mom’s Death—Until One Shocking Moment Changed Everything
|I never knew my mother, and my dad never spoke about her. All I had was a picture of her in my dad’s study. She looked beautiful in it, but she had died very young.
My dad was a quiet, sad man. I wanted him to love me, to notice me, but he never did. He spoke to me only when he had to, with short greetings like “hello” or “goodnight.” I dreamed he’d hug me and say he loved me, but it never happened.
When I turned 18, our strained relationship hadn’t changed. I felt lonely and unloved, thinking my father hated me. If he couldn’t love me, who could?
One night, he hosted a party for work. I saw a woman there I recognized. She seemed to have a history with my dad—or maybe she wished she did. We chatted for a bit, and as my dad walked by, I smiled at him. He glanced away. The woman noticed.

“Do you know why?” she asked.
“Why what?” I said, confused.
“Why he hates you,” she replied.
“My dad doesn’t hate me!” I insisted. “He’s just not expressive.”
“So, you don’t know…” she said with a sly smile.
I wanted to leave, but then she said something that stopped me cold: “He thinks you killed your mother, Karen.”
I froze. “What?” I gasped.
“Your mother died giving birth to you. Didn’t you know?”
“No,” I said, trembling. “I didn’t know.”
I ran away from her and found my grandmother, who had raised me. “How did my mother die?” I demanded. “Was it in childbirth?”

She hesitated. “Karen, your father asked me never to tell you.”
“I deserve to know!” I shouted. “I need to know why he hates me!”
A voice behind me answered, “I don’t hate you, Karen, but your mother’s death is none of your business.”
It was my dad.

I turned to him, angry and hurt. “Her death is none of my business? I killed her, didn’t I? That’s what you think every time you see me!”
The look in his eyes confirmed my worst fears. I ran out, got in my car, and drove aimlessly, crying. I didn’t see the other car until it was too late.

When I woke up in the hospital, I was hooked to machines. My dad was sitting beside me, holding my hand.
“Karen,” he said softly, “Thank God you’re okay.”
“Daddy,” I whispered, “you’re here.”

His eyes filled with tears. “Of course, I’m here. I don’t hate you, Karen. I love you. And I don’t blame you for your mother’s death—I blame myself.”
He explained everything: “When your mom and I married, we were poor but happy. Then she got pregnant, and I took a second job to prepare for your arrival. I was working long hours, and she was often alone.

One day, I came home, and she was gone. A neighbor had taken her to the hospital. When I got there, it was too late. She had died, and I wasn’t there for her.”
I listened, stunned. “Dad, how could you blame yourself? There was nothing you could’ve done.”
“I could’ve been there,” he said, “holding her hand, the way I’m holding yours now.”
“But you always seemed so angry with me,” I said. “So cold.”

“Karen,” he said, “you look just like your mother. Seeing you reminded me of her and brought back all my grief and guilt. I didn’t know how to deal with it, so I pulled away. But losing you today would’ve been unbearable. I love you.”
For the first time in my life, my dad hugged me and showed me he cared. It was the beginning of a new chapter for us. I like to think my mom was watching from heaven, happy that we had found each other again.