A few days later, I found out he had died.
His neighbor by the river called me crying and told me they found him in the morning, sitting on his little stool, holding an old photograph. It was my picture, taken on the first day of high school. On the back, he had written, trembling: “My son, my pride.”
I was left holding the phone, breathless. I felt my knees weaken. I collapsed on the floor and, for the first time in many years, I cried like a child.
I went to the village where he lived. When I entered his little room, I smelled the old wood and alcohol. On the table was a chipped mug, a half-burned candle, and a cardboard box full of receipts — all from the blood donation center.
Each piece of paper told a story. A story about a simple man who had nothing but gave everything. About a father who never complained, even when life crushed him.
I also found a letter, carefully folded, with my name on it. With trembling hands, I unfolded it. The writing was almost illegible:
“Do not blame yourself, son. Your father was happy to see you become a great man. Live beautifully and never forget that true love asks for nothing in return.”
I felt something break inside me.
I went to the cemetery with a bouquet of white flowers. I knelt by his grave and stayed there for a long time, without saying a word. The wind gently blew between the crosses, and my tears fell on the wet ground.
I realized that in the rush for money and status, I had lost the most valuable thing in my life: the man who loved me unconditionally.
Since then, every year, on the day he died, I donate blood. Not for recognition, but to remember. To feel, if only for a moment, that I can give something back.
And no matter how far I have come, no matter how many zeros my salary has now, I know one thing: no amount of money will ever be able to buy the love of a father who gave his blood for his son’s dream.
This work is inspired by real events and people, but has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the narrative. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
The author and publisher do not assume responsibility for the accuracy of events or for how characters are portrayed and are not liable for any misinterpretations. This story is provided “as is,” and any opinions expressed belong to the characters and do not reflect the views of the author or publisher.
