Two brothers I know buried their father last week. Their parents divorced 35 years ago. The boys remained close to their mother and saw their father only at separate holiday dinners.
When their father took ill a few years ago, the older son, busy with his company and his own family, shunted responsiblity for helping his father onto his younger brother. The younger son found a home for their father, who at that point was entering the early stages of dementia. He found a caretaker for him and visited as often as he could.
At the funeral last week, the older son cried as he remembered his father. 'He was an ace tennis player, a pilot, and played the piano beautifully. He taught me to drive, to fly, and to enjoy life. Because of him, I went into business for myself, applying what I'd learned from him to make my business grow."
The younger brother had no tears - yet. He was still in denial, beating himself up that he hadn't done more to help his father. Both brothers are handling their grief differently.
Both regret never telling their dad how much they loved him and how grateful they are for all he taught them. They will always wonder what they could have said while there was still time.
