regret

Carrying Regret: The Heartbreaking Lesson I Learned Too Late About Forgiveness

Title: The Heaviest Load We Carry: A Lesson in Forgiveness

Did I deserve it? The regret, the burden? I don’t know. What I do know is that I was a coward—I took time for granted. I never got to say, “I forgive you.” Instead, I let a grudge fester in silence. Vince was laid to rest today, and for the first time, I was humbled.

My excuse for not crying was simple: we never really had a father-son relationship. That was my attitude when I grew old enough to fend for myself.

The Man in the Majestic Tours Uniform

Back when I attended D.W. Davis, we shared the same bus route every morning. I’d spot him—Vince—in his white and blue Majestic Tours uniform. I wasn’t certain at first, but the familiarity in his face and that uniform confirmed it. Same bus. Same time. For weeks.

There was even a day when some kids from C.C. Sweeting ripped my pocket clean off and stole my lunch money. He stood there, just watching. No words, no acknowledgment. His own son.

“Why won’t he acknowledge me?” That question haunted me. It became my silent grudge. I never shared this with anyone until now.

The Bravest Man in the Universe

“The bravest man in the universe is the one who has forgiven first.”
—Bobby Womack

I needed my father. I needed that bond, that presence. And yet, I turned out fine… didn’t I? Or so I tell myself. I vowed never to be like him. I watched my mother struggle to raise Vincent, Marvis, and me on her own. He missed the most critical years of my life. I was bitter but wore it like armor, pretending it didn’t hurt.

Marvis and Vince acted like everything was fine. At family gatherings, they’d surround him with hugs and “Daddy, Daddy!” But not me. I couldn’t call him that. He didn’t deserve it—or so I thought.

A Change in Him, A Stubbornness in Me

As time passed, Vince tried to atone. I saw it in the way he cared for his grandkids—his pride and joy—who affectionately called him “Papa.” He played with them, laughed with them. And the bitterness inside me whispered: “Did he play with me like that?”

I was so blinded by pride and immaturity that I failed to see the truth: he was reaching out to me. Subtle hints, small gestures—I missed them all.

Even though I swore I’d never be like him, the irony is that I carry so much of him within me. I inherited his obvious nose, sure, but more importantly, I inherited his inability to express how I really felt.

“Why should I forgive you when you never asked for forgiveness?” I used that question as my shield.

April 9th: The Day Time Ran Out

Vince was in and out of the hospital often. It had become routine, and I took it for granted. “He always gets better,” I thought. But on April 9th, while I was returning from Orlando, the message came through our WhatsApp group:

“He gone, y’all.”

I stared at the screen. Vardo’s words hit me like a blow. He was gone. I missed him by mere hours.

The last time I saw Vince, he was shopping at Meat Max, looking as normal as ever. Why was this bothering me so much? We never had a real relationship—or at least, that’s what I kept telling myself. I convinced myself that his death wouldn’t affect me, that I’d stay strong for my sisters.

The Father I Never Knew

Today, at his funeral, I was introduced to the real Vince—the man, the father—I never got to know. For years, I blamed him for not wanting a relationship with me, but the truth was painfully clear: I was the one who refused it.

I had countless chances to let go of my grudge, to accept that he was not perfect but still tried to make amends. Marvis and Vince seized those chances. They forgave him. I didn’t.

I carried his casket today, and that’s when the tears came. Not tears of grief, but tears of regret. And regret—let me tell you—is the heaviest load anyone can carry.

A Tribute, A Release

I never got to say, “I forgive you, Daddy.” Pride cost me the chance to heal, to mend what was broken. But I’m saying it now, publicly:

I forgive you, Vince.

I’m proud that you made peace with your Creator, and I hope you knew, deep down, that I loved you despite my stubborn silence.

Until we meet again, Daddy, this is my tribute to you: a lesson in forgiveness.

“The bravest man in the universe is the one who has forgiven first.”

I hope I’m brave enough to honor that.