I grew up believing that my father blamed me for my mother’s death but the truth was heartbreaking.
I never knew my mother, and my father never spoke about her. All I knew was that she had been very beautiful, because of the picture that hung on my father’s study wall, and that she had died very young.
My father was a sad man, a quiet and distant man. I wanted him to notice me, and to love me, but he never did. He rarely spoke to me beyond the perfunctory hello and goodbye, good morning and goodnight. I would have given anything for him to sweep me into his arms and tell me he loved me.
The shadow of my mother’s death followed me my whole life | Source: Shutterstock.com
This strange and strained relationship with my father continued until I was 18, and by then I was a sad and lonely young woman who believed my father hated me. If my father didn’t love me, who would?
But the answer to all my questions was about to be delivered in the most painful and cruel way. My father was hosting a party for his business associates, and among them was a woman whom I knew slightly.
If you don’t leave the past behind you, you deny yourself a future.
I had the feeling that she and my father had a past together — or at least that she wished they did. She greeted me and we started chatting — inconsequential talk about nothing special — and my father walked by.
I gave him my best smile, but he immediately glanced away. The woman saw it all. “Do you know why?” she asked.
I grew up feeling that my father hated me | Source: Unsplash
“Why what?” I asked, confused.
“Why he hates you,” she said.
“My father doesn’t hate me!” I exclaimed. “He’s just not a very demonstrative man.”
“So you don’t know…” she smiled. It was the ugliest smile I’d ever seen. I was about to walk away when she said, “He believes you killed your mother, Karen.”
One day at a party someone told me the truth | Source: Unsplash
I stopped in my tracks. “What?” I gasped.
“Your mother died giving birth to you, surely you know that?” she said.
“No…” I answered. “No, I didn’t know.” I turned my back on her and went looking for my grandmother, my father’s mother, the woman who’d raised me and never told me about my mother’s death.
“How did my mother die?” I asked her angrily. “Was it in childbirth?”
My mother had died in childbirth | Source: Pexels
My grandmother shook her head. “Please Karen, your father asked me never to speak of this with you.”
“I have the right to know about my own mother!” I cried. “I have the right to know why my father hates me!”
Then a quiet angry voice behind me said, “I don’t hate you, Karen, but your mother’s death is none of your business:”
I turned to face my father. “My mother’s death is none of my business? You’re wrong! I killed her, didn’t I? That’s what you think each time you look at me!”
My father blamed me for her death | Source: Unsplash
The expression in his eyes sent me running out of the door. I got into my car and drove aimlessly, tears running down my face. In my distress, I didn’t see the oncoming car changing lanes until it was too late.
I woke up in the hospital linked to a beeping machine, with a dull promise of pain twinging through my whole body. Sitting by my side and holding my hand was my father.
“Karen,” he said softly, “Thank God you’re alright!”
“Daddy…” I whispered, “you’re here!”
Tears came into his eyes. “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. When your mom and I married we were very poor.
“All we had were dreams and our love for each other. Then she fell pregnant and I took on a second job. I knew we’d need the money when you came along. I was working 16-hour days and she spent a lot of time alone.
“So one day when I came home she wasn’t there. A neighbor had taken her to the hospital. When I got there it was all over. Your mother had died, and I hadn’t been there for her.
The accident nearly cost me my life | Source: Pexels
“I didn’t blame you, Karen, I blamed myself. I was determined I wasn’t going to fail you the way I’d failed her, so I threw myself into my work, and I became a rich man.
“Daddy, how could you blame yourself?” I asked. “There was nothing you could have done!”
“I could have been there, holding her hand the way I’m holding yours now,” he said.
“But daddy…” I hesitated, “you were always so angry with me, so cold. You ran away from me.”
My father and I were reconciled | Source: Unsplash
“Karen, you look just like your mother, and each time I looked at you, my heart was torn apart by grief and guilt. It took nearly losing you to make me realize what I’d done. I love you.”
For the first time in my life, my father put his arms around me and showed me that he loved me. It was a new beginning for both of us, and I like to believe my mother was smiling down from heaven.
What can we learn from this story?
- If you don’t leave the past behind you, you deny yourself a future. Karen’s father was so lost in his pain that he nearly lost the opportunity to have a wonderful relationship with his daughter.
- The truth can heal old wounds and open the way to a new beginning. It was only after Karen and her father spoke about their estrangement that they could move past their misunderstandings.
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If you enjoyed this story, you might like this one about a man who left his widowed mother homeless.
This account is inspired by our reader’s story but written by a professional writer. All names have been changed to protect identities and ensure privacy. Share your story with us, maybe it will change someone’s life.
I Nearly Froze to Death at 8 Years Old Until a Homeless Man Saved Me—Today, I Accidentally Met Him Again
I never thought I’d see him again. Not after all these years. Not after he saved my life that night in the snowstorm and vanished without a trace. But there he was, sitting in the subway station with his hands outstretched for change. The man who once saved me was now the one who needed saving.
For a moment, I just stood there, staring.
It reminded me of that very day. Of the biting cold, of my tiny, frozen fingers, and of the warmth of his rough hands guiding me to safety.
A little girl standing in forest | Source: Midjourney
I had spent years wondering who he was, where he had gone, and if he was even still alive.
And now, fate had placed him right in front of me again. But could I truly help him the way he once helped me?
***
I don’t have many memories of my parents, but I do remember their faces.
I clearly remember the warmth in my mother’s smile and the strength in my father’s arms. I also remember the night it all changed.
The night I learned they weren’t coming back.
A girl standing by a window | Source: Midjourney
I was only five years old when they died in a car accident, and back then, I didn’t even fully understand what death meant. I waited by the window for days, convinced they would walk through the door at any moment. But they never did.
Soon, the foster system became my reality.
I bounced from shelters to group homes to temporary families, never truly belonging anywhere.
Some foster parents were kind, others were indifferent, and a few were downright cruel. But no matter where I ended up, one thing remained the same.
I was alone.
An upset girl | Source: Midjourney
Back then, school was my only escape.
I buried myself in my books, determined to build a future for myself. I worked harder than anyone else, pushing past the loneliness and the uncertainty. And it paid off.
I earned a grant for college, then clawed my way through medical school, eventually becoming a surgeon.
Now, at 38, I have the life I fought for. I spend long hours at the hospital, performing life-saving operations, and barely stopping to catch my breath.
It’s exhausting, but I love it.
Surgeons in an operation theatre | Source: Pexels
Some nights, when I walk through my sleek apartment, I think about how proud my parents would be. I wish they could see me now, standing in an operating room, making a difference.
But there’s one memory from my childhood that never fades.
I was eight years old when I got lost in the woods.
It was a terrible snowstorm, the kind that blinds you, the kind that makes every direction look the same. I had wandered too far from the shelter I was staying in.
And before I knew it, I was completely alone.
A girl standing in the woods during a snowstorm | Source: Midjourney
I remember screaming for help. My tiny hands were stiff with cold, and my coat was too thin to protect me. I was terrified.
And then… he appeared.
I saw a man wrapped in layers of tattered clothing. His beard was dusted with snow, and his blue eyes were filled with concern.
A man standing in the woods | Source: Midjourney
When he found me shivering and terrified, he immediately scooped me up in his arms.
I remember how he carried me through the storm, shielding me from the worst of the wind. How he used his last few dollars to buy me hot tea and a sandwich at a roadside café. How he called the cops and made sure I was safe before slipping away into the night, never waiting for a thank you.
That was 30 years ago.
I never saw him again.
Until today.
People at a train station | Source: Pexels
The subway was packed with the usual chaos.
People were rushing to work while the street musician did his thing in the corner. I was exhausted after a long shift, lost in thought, when my eyes landed on him.
At first, I wasn’t sure why he looked familiar. His face was hidden beneath a scruffy gray beard, and he was wearing tattered clothes. His shoulders were slumped forward as if life had worn him down.
As I walked toward him, my gaze landed on something very familiar.
A tattoo on his forearm.
An anchor tattoo | Source: Midjourney
It was a small, faded anchor that immediately reminded me of the day I got lost in the woods.
I looked at the tattoo then back at the man’s face, trying my best to remember if it was really him. The only way I could confirm it was by talking to him. And that’s what I did.
“Is it really you? Mark?”
He looked up at me, trying to study my face. I knew he wouldn’t recognize me because I was just a child the last time he saw me.
A man sitting at a subway station | Source: Midjourney
I swallowed hard, trying to keep my emotions in check. “You saved me. Thirty years ago. I was eight years old, lost in the snow. You carried me to safety.”
That’s when his eyes widened in recognition.
“The little girl…” he said. “In the storm?”
I nodded. “Yes. That was me.”
Mark let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head. “Didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”
A man smiling | Source: Midjourney
I sat down next to him on the cold subway bench.
“I never forgot what you did for me.” I hesitated before asking, “Have you been… living like this all these years?”
He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he scratched his beard and looked away. “Life has a way of kicking you down. Some people get back up. Some don’t.”
At that point, my heart broke for him. I knew I couldn’t just walk away.
“Come with me,” I said. “Let me buy you a meal. Please.”
He hesitated, his pride keeping him from accepting, but I wouldn’t take no for an answer.
Eventually, he nodded.
A man talking to a woman | Source: Midjourney
We went to a small pizza place nearby, and the way he ate told me he hadn’t had a good meal in years. I blinked back tears as I watched him. No one should have to live like this, especially not someone who once gave everything to help a lost little girl.
After dinner, I took him to a clothing store and bought him warm clothes. He protested at first, but I insisted.
“This is the least I can do for you,” I told him.
He finally accepted, running a hand over the coat as if he had forgotten what warmth felt like.
A rack with coats and jackets | Source: Pexels
But I wasn’t done helping him yet.
I took him to a small motel on the outskirts of the city and rented a room for him.
“Just for a while,” I assured him when he hesitated. “You deserve a warm bed and a hot shower, Mark.”
He looked at me with something in his eyes that I couldn’t quite comprehend. I think it was gratitude. Or maybe disbelief.
“You don’t have to do all this, kid,” he said.
“I know,” I said softly. “But I want to.”
The next morning, I met Mark outside the motel.
A motel sign | Source: Pexels
His hair was still damp from the shower, and he looked like a different man in his new clothes.
“I want to help you get back on your feet,” I said. “We can renew your documents, get you a place to stay long-term. I can help.”
Mark smiled, but there was sadness in his eyes. “I appreciate that, kid. I really do. But I don’t have much time left.”
I frowned. “What do you mean?”
He exhaled slowly, looking out toward the street. “Doctors say my heart’s giving out. Not much they can do. I feel it, too. I won’t be around much longer.”
A man talking to a woman | Source: Midjourney
“No. There has to be something—”
He shook his head. “I’ve made peace with it.”
Then he gave me a small smile. “There’s just one thing I’d love to do before I go. I want to see the ocean one last time.”
“Alright,” I managed to say. “I’ll take you. We’ll go tomorrow, okay?”
The ocean was about 350 miles away, so I had to take a day off from the hospital. I asked Mark to come over to my place the next day so we could drive there together, and he did.
But just as we were about to leave, my phone rang.
A woman using her phone | Source: Pexels
It was the hospital.
“Sophia, we need you,” my colleague said urgently. “A young girl just came in. Severe internal bleeding. We don’t have another available surgeon.”
I looked at Mark as I ended the call.
“I—” My voice caught. “I have to go.”
Mark gave me a knowing nod. “Of course you do. Go save that girl. That’s what you were meant to do.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “But we’ll still go, I promise.”
He smiled. “I know, kid.”
A man smiling while talking to a woman | Source: Midjourney
I rushed to the hospital. The surgery was long and grueling, but it was successful. The girl survived. I should have felt relieved, but all I could think about was Mark.
As soon as I was done, I drove straight back to the motel. My hands trembled as I knocked on his door.
No answer.
I knocked again.
Still nothing.
A sinking feeling settled in my stomach as I asked the motel clerk to unlock the door.
When it opened, my heart shattered.
A doorknob | Source: Pexels
Mark was lying on the bed, his eyes closed, his face peaceful. He was gone.
I stood there, unable to move. I couldn’t believe he was gone.
I had promised to take him to the ocean. I had promised.
But I was too late.
“I’m so sorry,” I whispered as tears streamed down my cheeks. “I’m so sorry for being late…”
***
I never got to take Mark to the ocean, but I ensured he was buried by the shore.
Waves on the shore at sunset time | Source: Pexels
He’s gone from my life forever, but one thing he has taught me is to be kind. His kindness saved my life 30 years ago, and now, I carry it forward.
In every patient I heal, every stranger I help, and every problem I try to solve, I carry Mark’s kindness with me, hoping to give others the same compassion he once showed me.
This work is inspired by real events and people, but it has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the narrative. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
The author and publisher make no claims to the accuracy of events or the portrayal of characters and are not liable for any misinterpretation. This story is provided “as is,” and any opinions expressed are those of the characters and do not reflect the views of the author or publisher.
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