The day my father died, he called me twelve times.
I didn't answer any of them.
Not because I hated him—
but because I thought there would be time.
There is always time, we think. Until there isn't.
My father and I hadn't spoken properly in three years. Our fights were never loud, never violent—just quiet misunderstandings that piled up like dust. Too small to clean immediately. Too heavy to ignore forever.
That morning, I was late for work. His name kept lighting up my phone. I silenced it.
I'll call him tonight, I promised myself. I always did.
At 2:17 p.m., my aunt called instead.
Her voice was shaking. My hands were shaking. The world felt like it had tilted just slightly off its axis.
"He kept asking for you," she said.
The funeral was quiet. Too quiet for a man who once filled rooms with laughter. I stood there, staring at his coffin, waiting for some dramatic wave of grief to crash into me.
It didn't.
What came instead was worse—
regret that moved slowly, patiently, like poison.
That night, I listened to his last voicemail.
"Hey… it's me," his voice said softly.
"I know you're busy. I just wanted to say—"
He paused. I could hear him breathing.
"—I'm proud of you. I always have been."
The message ended there.
I collapsed onto the floor, crying like my body had been holding it in for years.
For weeks after, I started noticing strange things.
I'd hear my father's voice in crowded rooms.
I'd smell his cologne on empty streets.
Clocks would stop at 2:17 p.m.
One night, exhausted and half-asleep, I whispered into the darkness,
"I'm sorry. I should have answered."
And somehow—
the darkness answered back.
"If you had spoken one minute earlier," a voice said, "everything would have been different."
I woke up to my phone ringing.
His name.
Again.
My heart pounded as I answered.
"Dad?"
Silence.
Then—
"You sound scared," he laughed. "Are you okay?"
I was crying, apologizing, speaking all the words I had saved for later. I told him everything—how much I loved him, how much I needed him, how sorry I was.
He listened quietly.
When I finished, he said,
"I don't have much time. But I'm glad you finally spoke."
The line went dead.
I woke up again. Morning light. My phone on the table. No missed calls.
At the funeral, nothing had changed.
Except me.
Now, whenever my phone rings—
I answer.
Because love doesn't wait.
And regret is always patient.