Michaels Mess - 12. Chapter 12

Michael suffered so much near the end. He never complained about the pain, never cursed his fate; instead, he poured his last bit of strength into making peace with his past. Although they had talked in the park, his final wish was to see Sarah one last time, but she never came, and neither did his children or anyone else from his old life. It broke my heart to watch him fade without them by his side. He told me not to call his parents, and as painful as it was, I kept my promise.

When he finally passed, I texted his family from his phone, hoping someone—anyone—would answer, would attend the funeral but no reply ever came. Arranging the funeral fell to me, and only a few people stood by his coffin that day: my parents, my siblings, our nieces and nephews. They only knew the kind, gentle man Michael was. They never saw the weight of his regrets or how fiercely he wanted to atone for them. Still, I believe they would have loved him just the same.

After Michael passed away, I returned to NYC to honor and continue building the legacy he had left behind. Stepping back into our apartment was incredibly difficult. Every corner held a fragment of Michael’s presence—the comical slippers I had bought for him, the thoughtful gifts he had given me that first Christmas we spent together.

Walking into the living room, memories of that first night flooded my mind. In our bedroom, I could almost see us there, sharing our first moments of intimacy and every moment after that. Michael had been so gentle, so kind… It was hard to reconcile the loving man I had come to cherish with the same person who had wronged so many people in his past.

The apartment felt colder without him. The scent of his favorite coffee blend lingered in the air, a bittersweet reminder of our mornings together. I had finally agreed to a coffee table in the living room. I ran my fingers over the surface of the table, feeling the grooves where we had carved our initials during happier times.

As I moved through each room, the silence was deafening. The laughter we once shared now echoed as hollow reminders of what was gone.

Every year on his death anniversary, I fly out to the West Coast to visit his grave. I lay a single flower for him and whisper a prayer. Without fail, I find five red roses already there, their petals bright against the worn stone. I look around, hoping to glimpse Sarah or maybe one of his children, but I never do. I can only imagine it’s their way of letting him know they haven’t forgotten. Maybe, in their own way, they’ve chosen to forgive him.

Sarah’s Thoughts

I stand at the edge of the cemetery, holding a single red rose. My heart hammers against my ribs—part guilt, part longing, part something I can’t even name. When Michael was dying, he asked to see me, but I couldn’t bring myself to go. Maybe I was still too hurt, too consumed by what we’d lost. Yet here I am now, wishing I’d found a way to be by his side when it mattered most.

I spoke with him in the park, but I was cold and distant. Determined not to let the love that I had in my heart for him cloud my judgement. Even after everything, there was a place in my heart for him.

I kneel and place the flower against the cold stone, running my fingertips over the letters of his name.

I think back to the family photo—taken before everything fell apart. Then I remember how he left without a word, how I swore I’d never speak to him again even if he came crawling back.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, knowing he couldn’t hear. “Sorry I didn’t try harder. Sorry I didn’t track you down and force you to face what you did.” Did I have anything to be sorry about? I wasn’t sure.

My voice catches in my throat. “I hated you for so long. Maybe you deserved it. But maybe… maybe I should have let you explain.”

He owned up to his past, and I knew it took courage for him to do that. There’s a pang in my chest as I recall the warmth in his voice when he spoke about making amends. A part of me hopes he knew, in the end, that I never stopped caring.

As I stand again, I notice the other flowers—evidence that someone else has been here, maybe more often than I ever have. A strange sense of relief washes over me, knowing he wasn’t entirely alone in death. I close my eyes and say a silent prayer, telling him that despite everything, I do forgive him. I don’t know if he can hear me, but I like to believe he can feel my presence here. And in this small moment, I find a measure of peace—enough to keep coming back, flower in hand, and remembering the man Michael became.

Shawn’s Thoughts

I never imagined standing here would stir up so many different feelings. One moment, my chest is tight with anger at the man who walked away, leaving us with nothing but questions. The next, I’m clutching these letters he wrote, wishing I could hear him say the words instead of just reading them on the page. Sometimes, I even catch myself wanting to know if he ever missed tucking me in at night, or teaching me how to throw a ball—if he ever cried over what he’d lost.

I set the flower down against the headstone, and my hand lingers there. Growing up, he was like a ghost: talked about but never actually present. Now I have these letters, all these bits of him on paper. They’re an apology, a confession, a history I never got to witness firsthand. I can’t say I’ve forgiven him, not entirely. Part of me is still hurt, and a part of me is still that little kid waiting for him to come home. Yet another part of me wonders if maybe he really did love us in his own broken way.

All I know is that I came here today because I needed to. But why do I come here every year? What is the need to look at the name carved on this stone and feel...something. Call it closure, call it curiosity, maybe it’s just my way of saying goodbye to the idea of a father I never fully had. Even if it’s too late for us to make memories, I hope somewhere, somehow, he knows I’m trying to understand. Maybe that’s the best I can do right now.

Samantha’s Thoughts

I kneel down by the headstone, a single flower clutched in my hands. It’s strange, but the moment I see his name etched in the granite, I’m five years old again—reaching up for the father who made me feel like I was his whole world. I adored him with every bit of my tiny heart, and I know he adored me, too. That’s what makes it all so confusing. If he loved me, how could he leave?

A part of me is still angry. I spent so many nights wondering where he was, why he didn’t come home. But another part—maybe the bigger part—just misses him. I have these letters he wrote, and some faded photos, but that’s all. I read them sometimes, trying to piece together the man behind the words. In them, he sounds sorry, hopeful, determined to make things right. I wish he’d had the chance. I wish that I had gone to see him.

Placing the flower on his grave, I whisper a small prayer. I can’t say I’ve fully forgiven him for walking away, but I also can’t deny how much he meant to me. Love and hurt blend together in this strange knot inside my chest. Maybe that’s what happens when you lose someone who mattered so much. Still, I hope he knows I never stopped loving him. Even now, even here, he’s the father I adored—and a part of me always will.

Faith’s Thoughts

I stand in front of this headstone, holding a bouquet of flowers and a lifetime of questions. I never met my father, never heard his voice except in the stories Mom would share—stories she told with such gentleness, as if protecting me from any bitterness. And I guess she was, in a way. She wanted me to know him the best I could, even if he wasn’t around to be my dad.

Sometimes I wonder what it would’ve been like to have him there for my first steps or my first day of school. I think about the letters he wrote me, trying to imagine the man behind the words. They’re full of apologies and hopes, but they’re all I’ve got—words on paper from a stranger who also happens to be my father.

I place the flowers on his grave and take a deep breath. I’m not sure if I’m mourning the man he was, or the father I wish he could’ve been. Maybe both. Even though he left before I was born, I want to believe that he loved me in his own way. Part of me aches at the thought of never really knowing him, but another part is strangely grateful—grateful that Mom never poisoned those letters with anger, that she let me form my own picture of him.

I whisper a quiet goodbye, hoping he can hear me wherever he is. I don’t know if this feeling in my chest is love, regret, or simply curiosity for what might have been. But I do know I’ve come here to pay my respects—to the man who, in the end, tried to reach out, and to the father I’ll forever wish I had known.