I Made a Mistake I Can Never Undo
I wish I could turn back time, just for a day, for an hour. My Dadi. She was the anchor of our home, her prayers echoing at dawn, the smell of her jasmine oil filling the hallway. Every evening, she’d call, "Beta, come sit with me. Tell me about your day." But I was always too busy.
"Later, Dadi," I'd say, my eyes glued to my phone, or rushing to meet friends. "I have work. I have studies. I'm tired." Her voice would dim a little, but she'd never push. She'd just hum a little prayer, and I’d feel a prickle of guilt, quickly dismissed. There would always be tomorrow, I thought. She was always there.
Then came the fever. A sudden, vicious thing. I remember Mom pleading with me to go to the hospital with them, but I had an important exam the next day. "Just for a bit, then come back," I'd promised. I didn't go. I was too selfish, too focused on my own life, my own future.
She passed away in the early hours, quietly, alone except for my parents. My last memory of her is a hasty "Good night, Dadi" as I hurried past her room. No hug, no lingering touch, no listening to her stories. Just a dismissive wave.
Now, the silence in our home is deafening. Every corner reminds me of her. I passed that exam with flying colours, but the taste of victory is ashes in my mouth. I carry this weight, this unbearable truth: I made a mistake I can never undo. I ignored the precious gift of her presence. I can never ask for her forgiveness. I can never again feel her soft hand bless my head. And that regret, it's a wound that will never heal.
Anonymous confession. Share yours anonymously.
