He died quickly, I think. I was in the living room and he was in his bedroom. I checked on him once because he had been sleeping for a while. I didn't want to wake him so I kept the light off.
I wish I would have turned them on.
I wish I would have realized he wasn't snoring.
I wish I would have realized that I didn't even hear his heavy breathing.
But I didn't, so I closed the door and went back to the living room.
My mom found him later, when she realized he didn't respond. She had kept repeating "why didn't you check on him? How could you let this happen?"
Eleven year old me didn't understand
how it could me my fault, but I believed that it was my fault. I hold resentment in my heart for that; I don't feel it all the time, but whenever I think of him I feel the blame.
I let my mother's soulmate die. She truly, deeply loved him, and I had grown close with him. I wonder how my life would be like if he hadn't died. I would be happier. I get a pang in my heart whenever I think of him. My mom sometimes gets lost, her eyes glazing over and she just sighs, and I know she's thinking of him. We miss him.
