I grew up believing my father blamed me for my mother’s death, but the truth was heartbreaking. My mother died giving birth to me, and my father, consumed by guilt, couldn’t bear the sight of me, as I resembled her. He worked long hours to provide, but wasn’t there when she needed him. For years, I felt his coldness and assumed he hated me. But after a near-fatal car accident, my father revealed his pain. He confessed he blamed himself, not me. We reconciled, and for the first time, he embraced me, showing love I’d longed for. Our healing began.
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