Dad’s voice trembled.
“I need to tell you the truth. Your mom died because I… looked away for just one second.”
The room went silent.
He stared at his shaking hands, tears rolling down his wrinkled face. “We were arguing that night. She wanted me to stop the car, but I was angry. I turned to yell at her… and the truck came out of nowhere.”
For years, I had imagined some dark secret—something unforgivable. But sitting there, looking at the broken man Alzheimer’s had slowly erased, I realized his punishment had already lasted longer than any prison sentence.
“I tried to forget,” he whispered. “But every time I remembered her… I remembered the crash too.”
I took his hand and held it tightly.
And for the first time in years, Dad remembered my name.
