The Last Hug—A Letter to My Regretful Self, and to the Father I’ll Always Miss
Grief lingers not to wound, but to remind us how deeply we loved.
There are moments when memory visits like an old friend—uninvited, yet welcome.
Dear me,
You missed Bapak, your dear father.
Let’s go back to when he was still alive.
You know,
You should have brought him out more often.
You rarely took him out with your husband and kids together.
This time, take him for a stroll in the park—how about on alternate weekends?
He would have loved that.
You should have called him more.
And this time, why don’t you call him every morning?
Just say, “How’s your morning, Pak?”
You know how much he loved talking with you on the phone.
He would have felt cared for.
You should have visited him more.
This time, sit beside him. Talk about everything—no topic too small, no story too long.
Get his life advice. You know Bapak loved giving advice.
He loved your cooking, especially lamb stew.
Remember how happy he looked when he came to your house? You were just as happy.
Why not cook more for him?
Remember the roasted chicken he made for you when you were ten?
You waited in the kitchen until it was ready.
It tasted so good, you thought it was the best food ever.
And remember the time he made you laugh so hard—just by telling an old kampung story in that dramatic voice of his?
You both laughed like children.
Yes, he would nag, sometimes.
That was his nature.
He was old. What did you expect?
You should have just listened.
When you were young, he listened to your cries—and never once nagged.
When he fell ill, you should have been by his side more.
True, he never stopped you from going overseas, but you could have delayed your trip.
Yes, you bought him medicines, everything he needed—but he needed you.
He needed you there beside him.
This time, why don’t you stay?
Hold his hand in that hospital bed—that night—the night he left for eternity.
You could have whispered, “I love you, Pak,” before he went.
Yes, I know…
You didn’t know he would go so fast.
You were in Canada when he left the world.
You cried and cried, because you couldn’t return in time.
Yes, I know—you carried the guilt so tightly, even though you hugged him before leaving.
That embrace was the last.
He held you so tight, as if he couldn’t let you go.
He gave you a peck on your forehead, as if you were still his small child.
You didn’t know it then.
You still remember his eyes, that look—
As if he knew he didn’t have much time left,
Even as you promised to come back and see him again.
You remember how you both talked privately that day?
He advised you what to do if he died.
You insisted he’d live longer. You told him you’d bring him to Canada.
But he said he couldn’t go, he wouldn’t have the time.
He knew it.
He pointed to that hill and asked, “Ita, could you buy me a house there?”
You nodded.
And that house he asked for was actually his grave.
When you returned, you did as he asked. You cried.
You knew this much—
He never asked for comfort, or praise.
His silence in suffering was his way of loving you without burdening you.
And deep in your heart, even from afar,
Your love never left him.
Dear me,
Why don’t you take his hands and ask for his forgiveness this time?
“I’m sorry, Pak, for everything I have done that might have hurt you—without me realizing it.
I’m sorry, Pak, for leaving you when you needed me.
I’m sorry, Pak… from the top of my head to the soles of my feet.
And thank you… thank you for raising me so well, all these years.”
Let the tears fall.
Don’t wipe them.
You know Bapak loved you unconditionally.
Remember his words:
“Take care of your dear family.
Take care of your mother too.
Keep in touch with your siblings and our relatives.
Don’t sever family ties.
When you find yourself on a winding road, return to the straight path.
We all make mistakes—I did, you did, everyone did.
Because we are all human.”
Dear me,
I know you still hold the grief.
Even after two years, it clings to your soul.
But grief… grief is love that has nowhere else to go.
Let it stay.
Let it remind you—
He mattered.
And you loved him.
Maybe not perfectly, but truly.
About the Author
Written by Rita Reflects
A quiet observer of life’s in-between moments. I write to remember, reflect, and reconnect—with myself and with others. Lover of coffee, conversations, and the comforting light of ordinary days.
📖 More reflections: ritareflects.substack.com
🖋 Medium: medium.com/@ritareflects
Signed off,
Truly,
Rita Reflects