A Son’s Tears: Ethan’s Heartfelt Tribute to His Late Father

“You’re just like your father, Ethan. Stubborn to the bone.”

Mom’s words echoed in my head as I stared at the faded photograph clutched in my trembling hands. Dad and I, arms slung over each other’s shoulders, sweaty and laughing after my high school baseball game—a lifetime ago, it seemed. The kitchen clock ticked louder than usual, every second pounding a fresh ache into my chest. Today marked exactly a year since Dad died, and I still couldn’t forgive myself for the argument we had the night before his heart attack.

I remember it too clearly. He’d wanted me to come home for dinner, to help him fix the old Ford in the garage. But I was twenty-one and convinced I had better things to do. “I’ll come by next week, Dad,” I snapped. “You don’t need me hovering all the time.”

He just looked at me, disappointment clouding his blue eyes. “One day, Ethan, you’ll understand.”

I never had the chance to. Next morning, Mom called, her voice cracked and hollow. “He’s gone, Ethan. Your dad’s gone.”

Now, the house felt emptier than ever. Mom moved around in a daze, her grief like a gray fog that smothered everything. My younger sister, Lily, barely spoke anymore, hiding in her room with headphones clamped over her ears. The three of us moved through the days as ghosts, orbiting around a loss too massive to confront.

That morning, I shuffled into the kitchen, expecting silence. Instead, I found Mom at the table with a shoebox. She slid it toward me—her hands shaking.

“Your father wanted you to have this. He wrote it… before.”

My heart stuttered. I opened the box. Inside was a battered baseball glove—Dad’s—and a bundle of letters, each sealed with his familiar scrawl. My hands shook as I picked up the first one.

“Ethan,” it began. “If you’re reading this, it means I’m not around anymore, and I’m sorry for that. I know we fought. I know you’re angry. But I want you to know, more than anything, I’m proud of you. Even when you’re stubborn. Especially then.”

Tears blurred the words. I read on.

“There are things I never said. I regret that. I regret every time I let work, or pride, or fear get in the way of telling you I love you. I hope you find your way in this world, son. Don’t let anger or regret chain you. Be better than me. Forgive. Move on.”

My breath caught in my throat. The letter ended with a challenge: “Go to the old field, the one where you hit your first home run. Take my glove. Play catch, even if it’s just with your shadow.”

I stared at Mom. “Did you know about this?”

She shook her head, tears spilling down her cheeks. “He wrote them for you. For Lily, too. He wanted you both to heal.”

I grabbed the glove and letters and drove to the abandoned field on the edge of town. The wooden bleachers sagged, the grass was overgrown, but the diamond was still there, sunlit and silent. I sat on the pitcher’s mound, pulled on Dad’s glove, and closed my eyes. For a moment, I could almost hear his voice—steady, encouraging, impossibly patient.

“Keep your eye on the ball, Ethan. Breathe. You’ve got this.”

I threw an imaginary pitch, the ball soaring across memories. The anger, the guilt—it all poured out, raw and jagged.

Suddenly, I heard footsteps crunching behind me. I turned. Lily stood there, holding a letter of her own, eyes rimmed red.

“Can I… can I play, too?”

We threw the invisible ball back and forth, our laughter echoing in the empty field. The pain didn’t vanish, but it shifted—made room for something gentler, warmer.

That night, Mom made Dad’s favorite dinner—meatloaf and mashed potatoes. We sat together, sharing stories, tears, and awkward laughs. For the first time in a year, our family felt less broken, stitched together by the words he’d left behind, and by the memories we carried.

Later, alone in my room, I clutched Dad’s glove and reread his letter. My chest ached, but I felt something like hope. Maybe forgiveness wasn’t about forgetting or moving on. Maybe it was about letting go of the things I couldn’t change, and holding tight to the love that remained.

If I could ask one question, it’d be this: How do you forgive yourself for the words you never got to say? And is it ever too late to say them anyway?