My dad was an addict. He died from an overdose in 2018.

 I once got mad at him when his food stamp card didn’t work, and I had to pay for his groceries. It wasn’t really about the money.

I gave him a hard time when he broke my glass measuring cup. It wasn’t really about the cup.

He complimented my new haircut, and I got so angry because he had already seen it before. I assumed he was too drunk to remember. It wasn’t really about my hair.

I drove him to doctor after doctor, rehab after rehab, but I was often impatient. I let him see how frustrated I was by everything he needed from me. It wasn’t really about the time.

He was homeless for years.

He stood on street corners with a sign, asking for food or money.

I loved him, but I was often embarrassed by him.

I was angry about my childhood and how it affected my adult life. And I found ways to take it out on him.

Now he’s gone. And I’m not mad at him anymore. I’m mad at myself—for letting my inability to forgive him get in the way of our relationship.

He is free now. But I’m still carrying the weight of all the grace I should have given him when he needed it most.

Give forgiveness.

Because the regret of not giving it is heavier than all the anger I carried for years.