One cloudy afternoon, the boy walked home from school alone. His bag hung loosely from his shoulder, and his eyes stared at the road as thoughts swirled inside him.
> "Why is Dad always so busy?" he wondered.
"Why doesn't he ever play cricket with me? Or take me to the park like other dads do?"
His small heart felt heavy. Lost in his thoughts, he stepped onto the road without noticing the truck speeding toward him.
A loud screech.
A scream.
And then — silence.
When he opened his eyes again, the ceiling above was white and blinding. His body felt weak, and there were wires and tubes around him. Then he saw his mother — her eyes swollen from crying. Beside her, his father sat, holding his tiny hand, trembling.
Tears rolled down the father's cheeks as he whispered,
> "I'm sorry, son… I'm so sorry. I couldn't give you the time you deserved. When you needed me the most, I wasn't there. Please forgive me…"
The boy managed a weak smile.
> "It's okay, Dad. When I get better, we'll go to the park, right? And play cricket together… just like I always wanted."
The father broke down again, his heart aching with regret — the kind that comes too late.