The One Question I Regret Not Asking My Dad Before He Died
Reminiscing on lost time and missed connection
My dad passed away from cancer a few years ago. At the shiva (a weeklong mourning period in Judaism for first-degree relatives), I broke down. I couldn’t stop crying.
Picturing a world without him hit me hard. At that moment, I thought of all the lost time and opportunities for a deeper connection that we had missed.
A year before his death, I took a trip with my dad and brother. We traveled to India to visit the city of his birth, Mumbai. My brother and I expected to learn more about his upbringing and genuinely connect.
Dad had other ideas.
He hadn’t returned to India since the day he left as a young man of 22. Dad didn’t come from a wealthy family; he had to work hard to save money for a one-way trip, packing a single suitcase to stay with an uncle in England. He never looked back.
Now, back in India for the first time — and with money — my dad wanted the tourist experience. We passed the old Catholic school he attended, which he casually mentioned as we sped past. We never got more than a brief mention of Dad’s life in India. The timing was never right, or he was never in the mood to enlighten us on his mysterious past.
