I never imagined that a simple disagreement would rob me of my daughter’s last smile. Even now, months later, the weight of my regret is almost unbearable.
My Priya was always a vibrant soul, full of life and creativity. From a young age, she’d spend hours with her sketchbook, bringing imagination to life with her colorful pencils. As parents, my wife Sunita and I were proud, but also worried. In our middle-class home in Delhi, we’d always believed that a secure future meant a career in engineering or medicine.
When Priya entered 12th standard, the pressure mounted. Board exams loomed, and with them, the decision about her future. “Beta, think about engineering. It’s a respectable field with good job prospects,” I’d say. Priya would sigh, “But Papa, my heart is in art. I want to study at the National Institute of Design.”
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Our arguments became more frequent. Sunita often played mediator, suggesting compromises, but I remained adamant. “We’re not rich enough to gamble on an artistic career,” I’d insist. Looking back, I realize I was letting my fears overshadow Priya’s dreams.
The day before her board exams began, tension in our home was at its peak. Priya had been studying non-stop for weeks, her usually cheerful face strained with stress. That evening, she approached me as I sat reading the newspaper.
“Papa,” she said softly, “can we go for ice cream? Like we used to when I was little?”
I looked up, annoyed at the interruption. “Priya, you need to focus. The exams start tomorrow.”
“Please, Papa. Just half an hour. I need a break, and… I miss spending time with you.”
For a moment, I hesitated. I saw a glimmer of my little girl in her eyes, the one who used to beg for piggyback rides. But my pride took over. “After the exams,” I said firmly. “Right now, your studies are more important.”
The hurt in her eyes was evident, but she nodded and returned to her room. I told myself I was doing the right thing, being a responsible parent.
A few hours later, Priya asked if she could go to her friend Anjali’s house to review some last-minute notes. Against my better judgment, I agreed, thinking it might help her perform better.
That was the last time I saw my daughter alive.
At 11 PM, we received the call that shattered our world. Priya had been in an accident. A speeding car had hit the auto-rickshaw she was in. By the time we reached the hospital, it was too late. Our vibrant, beautiful Priya was gone.
In the haze of grief that followed, Anjali visited us. With tears in her eyes, she handed me Priya’s phone. “Uncle, I thought you should see this,” she said.
The last photo on Priya’s phone was a selfie taken earlier that evening. She was standing in front of Sharma’s Ice Cream Parlor, our old favorite spot. Her smile was sad but hopeful. The caption read: “Wish Papa was here. Maybe after exams, we’ll come together like old times.”
That moment broke me completely. I realized how I’d let my stubbornness and fear overshadow what truly mattered – the joy of simply being present with my child. In my quest to secure her future, I’d lost sight of cherishing our present.
Now, every day, I look at that photo and think of all the moments I missed. The ice cream outings I cancelled, the art exhibitions I refused to attend, the simple conversations I was too busy for. I missed my daughter’s last smile because of my pride, and it’s a regret that will haunt me forever.
In the months since Priya’s passing, Sunita and I have tried to honor her memory. We’ve set up a small scholarship for aspiring artists at her school. It’s not much, but it’s a start. I’ve also started volunteering at a career counseling center, sharing my story with other parents, urging them not to make the same mistakes I did.
To all parents out there: please, don’t let your fears for the future blind you to the joys of the present. Listen to your children, cherish every moment with them. Support their dreams, even if they’re different from what you imagined. Share that ice cream, attend that art show, have that conversation. Time is precious, and we never know which moment might be our last together.
If I could go back, I’d trade all my plans and expectations for just one more smile, one more hug, one more moment with my Priya. But I can’t. All I can do now is share my story and hope that it might help other parents treasure the time they have with their children.
Because in the end, it’s not about the career they choose or the marks they score. It’s about the love we share and the memories we create. That’s what truly lasts.
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