When I was young, my father was a hero. Not just any hero—he was larger than life, unshakable, a man who held the world together with his bare hands. But youth is blind. I only saw what I wanted to see.

As I grew older, my vision sharpened, but not in the way I expected. The hero became human. I started noticing his imperfections, his struggles, his moments of hesitation. I thought I knew better. I saw him as stubborn, outdated, unwilling to change. And so, I distanced myself—not physically, but emotionally. I lived in my own world, believing time was infinite, that there would always be another moment to say the things left unsaid.

Then life happened. Responsibilities weighed on me, regrets started creeping in, and time—oh, time—kept slipping through my fingers like sand. By the time I turned 45, something shifted. The very challenges I judged my father for were now mine to face. The same dilemmas, the same burdens, the same quiet sacrifices. And suddenly, I found myself wondering, How did he do it? How did he carry it all without breaking?

But by the time I truly understood him, he was gone. My parents were gone. And I was left with echoes—of their voices, their lessons, their unspoken forgiveness. I look back and see a younger version of myself, too proud, too distracted, too caught up in things that never really mattered. I had chances to be a better son, to ask more questions, to sit with them a little longer, to simply say, I see you. I understand now. But life doesn’t give second chances for the past. It only lets you carry the weight of what’s left.

Time is cruel in its clarity. It strips away illusions and forces you to see the truth, but always too late. The things we once dismissed as small—a phone call, a shared meal, a moment of quiet together—turn out to be the very things we spend the rest of our lives longing for.

And so, my father is a hero once again. Not because he was perfect, but because he was human—flawed, struggling, trying his best, just like I am now. I can’t fix what’s done, but I can learn. I can love better, be more present, leave fewer things unsaid. Because one day, someone will look back on me, and I can only hope they won’t carry the same regrets.

Life teaches, but always in hindsight. And that is its greatest tragedy.