One evening, as I sat at the kitchen table, flipping through college brochures, Dad finally spoke. It was a hesitant, awkward apology, mumbled between sips of coffee. “I didn’t mean to ruin it for you,” he said, his eyes fixed on the table. “I just… it all got too much.”

I looked at him, trying to find the man I once idolized, the father who had taught me to ride a bike and cheered at my soccer games. His eyes were weary, burdened with regrets and unspoken truths.

“I just wanted you to be proud of me,” I said softly, meeting his gaze for the first time in weeks.