What People Say vs. What I Know
It’s been six months.
People tell me the same line, trying to be kind.
“It wasn’t your fault.”
“Depression is a silent killer.”
They’re not wrong.
Depression is a disease.
It lies.
It isolates.
It convinces good people that they’re a burden.
But I can’t stop looking at the math.
Because after the funeral, I went through his phone records.
I looked at his emails.
I saw the applications.
One after another after another.
Automated rejections.
“We’ve decided to pursue other candidates.”
“Do not reply to this email.”
I found spreadsheets.
Lists.
Notes to himself.
Plans he never told me about because he thought I’d mock them.
He wasn’t lying.
He wasn’t lazy.
He was working while I slept.
He was fighting a war I refused to see.
And I did the most dangerous thing a father can do.
I treated his pain like a character flaw.
I measured his life with a ruler from 1990.
And I beat him with it when he didn’t measure up.
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