Deathbed confessions were supposed to bring closure.
They were supposed to lift the burdening weight of the very societal and familial restrictions that turned living into a stifling downward spiral. Choice words were supposed to offer a reprieve.
The word should shatter him. It came close. But it didn’t dampen the yearning within or temper the desire to have his father, just once, look at him that way. Everything Robert did was in the vain hope his father would one day see him once more before it was too late.
A father’s expectations.
A son’s hope.
Lost in translation.