Disclaimer: Not mine. Surprised?

forgive-- to give up resentment against or the desire to punish

My father died when I was eleven. I still haven't forgiven him.

It was a month before my birthday when it happened. I remember the night before more vividly the next day. Perhaps it's because of the fact it was the last time he ever talked to me, even if it was to yell. Even if it was to then apologize. Even if I didn't accept it, I still remember, all of it. I was mad at him for punishing me. For yelling at me. I was eleven, what was I supposed to feel?

My mother had been talking to me, telling me not to do something or other. I mouthed off, some wise comment, and my father yelled at me, told me to go to bed, no dinner. He had just gotten home from a bad day at work and my mouthing off didn't help his mood. I thought he was going to hit me so I ran to my room. I shrank down in the corner of the room, listening for his footsteps, but they didn't come, not until later.

He came in and sat down on my brother's bed. I remember now how he tired he looked. And sad. He looked almost like he was going to cry. But when I was young, I could hold a grudge for a week if I wanted, and I was still mad at him, no matter how he looked.

"John," he had said. "I'm sorry for yelling at you. You can come down to dinner now. Your mother just served food."

I glared at him from my spot in the corner. I could still feel the dry tear tracks on my face. I wasn't about to back down, even if he was letting me come eat dinner.

My father looked away and then looked back at me. He looked so sad. "I love you, you know that, right?"

"I hate your guts, you know that, right?" I couldn't help it. I thought he was going to hit me, but he just sighed and left, leaving me with one last sad look.

The next day, I didn't see my father come home. A police officer knocked on our door and my mother answered. I remember listening from my bedroom. My brother was in the kitchen with my mother and he ran to our room, yelling that daddy was dead. I had already heard and I yelled at him to go away. To leave me alone. How could my father kill himself? How could he go and die when my birthday was just a month away? How could he die when I was mad at him? I was angry with him, he had no right to die, to kill himself. He gave in and I won by default. I wanted to win outright, not because he was no longer here to fight with.

I hated him that night, and into the next day. But the next night... The next night, I hated myself.

I made him do it. If I had just went up to my room and listened to him. If I had just been happy with the fact he was apologizing. If I had done that, he wouldn't have killed himself. He would've lived.

I fought with myself for months. I had caused my father's death. I had. Me, skinny little John Munch, had caused my own father's death. The rabbi at our synagogue didn't help either. I ignored him and what he told me. My birthday passed and I turned twelve, but I don't remember it. I was numb to it. Nothing was relevant anymore, though I should've been happy, excited. Instead I sat in my room the whole day, staring out my window into the small lot next to our house.

Soon after, I remembered a night when I was eight or nine. I had woken up and gone to the bathroom. On my way back to my room, I saw a figure sitting on the couch. He was hunched over, crying. When I realized who it was, I got scared. It was my father, crying. It was my father, with his head in his hands, crying. I decided not to tell anyone, instead I kept it to myself. I told no one, not even him. I didn't want to know what he would do if I told him what I had seen.

If I had just told him that I loved him...

My father died when I was eleven. I still haven't forgiven myself.