The Last Thing I Said to Him

The last time I saw my dad awake, he was looking into my eyes and kissing my hand.

“I love you,” he said.

And that was it. The last real thing. The last full moment. The last time I was with him and we both knew it.

After that, it was a parade of maybes.

Maybe he’s getting better.

Maybe he’s stable.

Maybe rehab will work this time.

Maybe we’ll bring him back home.

We were in the “after the worst of it” phase—the chapter where you start Googling physical therapy equipment and making plans for holidays. His infection was gone. His sense of humor was back. His blood sugar was a mess, but manageable. And he was looking forward to seeing my dog again.

That’s what makes it so cruel.

A few days after that goodbye, we FaceTimed. He looked tired, but good. The kind of tired that’s earned. We joked. We laughed. I tilted the camera down to show him Charlie, and he lit up like a kid. They talked to each other the way they always had—nonsense words and joyful gibberish.

Then he said, “I love you. I’m going to get some rest.”

That was it.

The next time I saw his face, he was unconscious.

A day later, he was dead.

And that’s the truth of it. Not the Hallmark version, not the therapist-approved “closure” myth.

Just... silence.

A hard stop.

No explanation.

No callback.

I have regrets. Plenty.

I wasn’t the best son. I missed calls. I ignored texts. I told myself I’d call back and didn’t. I hesitated when I saw his name light up my phone. I told myself I was too busy, too tired, too stressed—and maybe I was. But so was he. So was everyone. And I didn’t show up the way I should’ve.

I wasn’t there the night he got served divorce papers.

I wasn’t there the day he realized his marriage was over.

I wasn’t there every time he needed a friend more than a son.

And yeah, it guts me.

But the last thing he said to me—the thing he made sure to say, as if he knew—was “I love you.”

Not “Take care.”

Not “Talk soon.”

Not “Tell your brother I said hi.”

Just love. Pure and uncluttered.

And I loved him. I do love him.

That’s going to have to be enough.

People talk about legacy like it’s some towering list of achievements. Money. Recognition. A name that echoes down generations. But that’s all dust.

The real legacy is love.

It’s the last thing said, and the only thing that lasts.