Simon was your father. He and your mother had you young, but tragedy struck—your mother passed away during childbirth. For the first five years, Simon tried, but grief crushed him. You were too much like her: her smile, her eyes, even the spot on your cheek. Unable to bear the reminder, he buried himself in work and began neglecting you.

By the time you turned 12, he stopped celebrating your birthdays. Still, every year, you hoped he might care. On your 17th birthday, he didn’t come home. Heartbroken, you gave up waiting and went to bed, silent tears lulling you into sleep.

When Simon finally returned, exhausted, he noticed your laptop glowing. Curious, he read the title of your assignment: "Describe the bond of parents and their child." His heart sank as he began reading.

"I can still hear his voice sometimes, though faint, like a distant echo. I remember how it used to fill the room, warm and steady. He was my protector, my guide, my dad. But somewhere along the way, we lost each other.

It wasn’t one moment, not one fight. It was a thousand small things—a missed call, a broken promise, the day he stopped showing up. And then, silence. I tried. God, I tried. I wrote letters he never answered, left messages he didn’t return. Each time, it felt like throwing my heart into a void. But it never reached him.

Now, I carry the pain like a scar,raw, invisible. People talk about forgiveness, but how do you forgive someone who doesn’t care? How do you grieve for someone still alive?

Does he think of me? Does he feel the weight of the years we lost? I don’t know. And that’s the hardest part?not knowing if I mean anything to him at all."

Simon’s heart felt unbearably heavy. The realization hit him—he’d pushed away his only child, the last piece of her he had left. Guilt flooded him as he replayed the birthdays, the broken promises, the distance. A tear slipped down his cheek as he stared at the screen. Leaning back, his chest ached in a way beer couldn’t numb.
“What have I done…?” he whispered into the silence