My mom was threatening divorce, and my dad had fallen into a deep depression because of it. For about a week, I kept going back and forth between my mom’s temporary place and our home, trying to hold things together in whatever small ways I could. He kept asking me about her, asking me to talk to her, to fix things, to convince her to stay. I couldn’t bring myself to tell him she had already made her decision. I just kept hoping time would soften the truth before I had to say it out loud.

The night before Father’s Day, I told him I would come back early the next morning to make him breakfast. He said he would “take a rain check,” and I didn’t think much of it. That night I went out with friends and made a series of choices I now barely recognize. At some point, I started feeling wrong—my body overheating, my heart racing uncontrollably, my breath falling apart. I begged to go to the hospital, but no one took me seriously. I was driven to a stranger’s house instead, where I lay in fear, too weak to understand what was happening to me.

By early morning, I was finally taken home. On the ride back, something in me felt heavy, like I already knew something was wrong before I understood why. When we arrived, I walked to the door and saw a note taped to it. It asked not to enter and to call the police. It said, “I’m sorry for being such a coward.” My heart dropped before I even processed the words. I called the police in shock, my voice numb, telling them my father was gone.

I sat on the porch as everything collapsed at once. My mom arrived and broke down completely, her screams filling the air. I was taken to a neighbor’s house and left in a quiet room, where I lay in exhaustion and disbelief, barely able to feel anything anymore. Time blurred. At some point, I realized it was Father’s Day—the day I had promised him breakfast, the promis I never got to keep.