A few years ago, the adage “bad things come in threes” was proven true in the most inconvenient way imaginable – three flat Tires in the span of three weeks. Each incident was marked with a frantic phone call to my Father, who dutifully rushed to my rescue. Watching him change my punctured wheel, I remarked that I should really learn how to do it myself.

“No,” he admonished. “You can always call me.”

Recently, my dad had a pacemaker inserted. I took him to his surgery, a relatively simple outpatient procedure. In theory, its presence should provide comfort, making sure his Heart maintains a proper rhythm. In truth, its necessity made him realize his mortality. One night, he called to ask me to come over. This was no health emergency. He just wanted some company.

With Japanese police dramas providing background noise, he doled out advice. He mentioned that he would be able to give me some money for my upcoming wedding. With much guilt, I belatedly informed him that it had been called off months ago. Through words spoken and not, he sought forgiveness for the times he had not been there. I granted absolution. And although he seemed physically fine, he spoke like a dying man.

I had no Idea my father watched Japanese television shows.

A week later, I found myself with a car that refused to start, no cables, no idea of how to jump my battery, and the awareness that summoning my father at midnight would be an unforgiveable act of selfishness. I cursed my vulnerability and my stupidity. I watched my tears hit the steering wheel, unsure of whom I was crying for – me or him? Was this pity or true sadness? Did it matter?

There’s no neat conclusion here, no big epiphany or lessons learned. Just my quiet sorrow, our shared regrets.