I grew up thinking my father blamed me for my mother’s death, but the truth was far more painful. I never knew my mother, only that she was beautiful and had passed away young. My father was distant, sad, and silent, and he never spoke of her. I craved his love and attention, but he barely acknowledged me, only exchanging the barest of greetings.

When I was 18, feeling lonely and unloved, my father hosted a business party. I spoke with a woman I knew briefly, and when my father passed by, I smiled at him, but he quickly looked away. The woman saw this and asked if I knew why. When I said no, she revealed, “He believes you killed your mother.”

I was stunned. “What?” I gasped.

She told me my mother died giving birth to me, but I had never been told. Desperate for answers, I confronted my grandmother, who refused to speak about it. My father then revealed the truth: “I don’t blame you, Karen. I blame myself. I wasn’t there for her. I worked long hours, and when I finally arrived at the hospital, it was too late.”

He had blamed himself for not being there for my mother during childbirth. His guilt had driven him to focus on his career, pushing me away to avoid the pain of seeing me, who looked so much like her.

After a car accident that nearly killed me, my father sat by my side for the first time, holding my hand and finally expressing his love for me. “I love you,” he said, his arms around me. It was the beginning of a fresh start, and I believe my mother was smiling down from heaven.