Author's Notes: Clearly no slash. I hope you all get the message. I also hope that there's no need for me to explain the last part or any part of this story.

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Regrets

by: wicked lunatic

-071904-

676 words

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I always hated my dad ever since I could remember. I hated him for the simple reason that he's not always present during my birthdays. He would give me gifts and presents, even parties but he was never there.

I never liked him since then. We never talked about what a father and son should talk about or go fishing together, playing together… nothing. He's close to my little sister though. Always his favorite and that's why I never liked my sister too.

I remember when I started going to school, I would always end up in detention. The headmaster would always call him in his office. I guess I wanted the attention, his attention but we never really talked about it. He would always just look at me, ruffle my hair and go on his way.

When I grew older, I was the leader of a gang. We were the best among the best and of course detention is always in our way, he would always be called by the headmaster and he would come except of course, my birthday.

I asked myself once if I had done anything wrong in the past that would make him hate me. I racked my brains a couple of times and still could not find any answers. Summer and Christmas vacations were a disaster for me because I would see him. See how he smiles for my mother, for my sister and worst of all for me. He was always kind, always supportive, but never there on my birthday.

I gathered my courage once and asked him about it, he just smiled, ruffled my hair and went on his way. I began to hate him more. I did a lot of things that would disappoint him. I even almost got expelled when I hit a schoolmate squarely in his jaws in my fifth year but he just smiled at me, ruffled my hair and went on his way. I was furious that day that I shouted at him. For the first time, I shouted about how I felt about him, how I hate him, that I never wanted him to be my father and again he just looked at me, ruffled my hair and went on his way.

I was called from work one day by my mother and told me to go home. I obeyed and find out that he was dying. My sister was crying beside him so loud that he laughed. I came towards him when he called me and asked everyone to leave the room. He told me a story, his story. And when he finished, I was crying. I cried a lot more when he died that night.

I could never forget that day. It was the first and last time that I was with my dad. I could never forgive myself for all the horrible things that I did to him. How could I be so childish? He taught me a very valuable lesson: trust.

A lot of people came to his burial and I could never help but be ashamed for myself. I do not deserve to be called his son. We buried him next to his best friends. I read the words embedded in the tombstone under their names:

"For Harry, our best friend. Remember us."

November 13

My birthday.

I could not stop the tears that ran down my cheeks.

My sister held my hand and said, "Look Ron, their names are the same as ours."

"I noticed, Hermione, I noticed." I said squeezing her hand while the others started leaving.

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The End

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