My father. Everything I have achieved had been because of him; and for him too. That was what he did too, he sacrificed everything for me. He sacrificed the rest of his life so that I can be where I am today. That was why he meant everything to me. And today, I would be meeting him again after twenty years.

I was driving down to the prison where he'd been incarcerated for the past years, when I was assaulted by the memories of those years. Like a movie, the events of that horrible day flashed in my mind...

We sat on the park bench, holding glasses half-filled with the dark brown liquid—whisky. Before us, on the small stool we usually brought whenever we came here (which was like every week), was the bottle of whisky. There was nothing left in it. It was full when we came here, but we've finished it, competing with ourselves to know who would take the last drop.

In the end, he had won, laughing and coughing as he downed the last portion. I laughed too, wishing that the emptiness that would follow after this would wait a bit. But it didn't, it came like a storm, washing over me and drowning me in bitterness.

Then dad spoke, letting me know the depth of his pain, of the pain we shared. "Amobi, she's not coming back again, you know?"

Of course, she wasn't. Mom was dead. Gone. Taken by something we were powerless about. "Yes, dad. Mom is really dead," I said, wiping the sweat mixed with the tears from my cheeks.

"To think that she died when we'd gotten the money for her surgery. I feel like strangling cancer if I can ever see the bastard," he said again, the sorrow in his heart nearly choking him.

I wanted to laugh at the silliness of the statement, but I ended up sobbing. It was so unfair. Mother had uterine cancer and for thirteen months, we fought to keep her alive. We sold everything in order to raise the money needed for her surgery. But we were too late.

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https://www.thezenpens.com/2019/10/20/the-sins-of-the-son/