How This All Ends.

For the Man That Raised Me.

       Upon the bed, in a cacophony of gross sobbing and frantic pleas, of a mother screaming for help at a poor woman trying to gather information while her daughter sat in a daze and her father tried to wake a dead boy, sat a letter than may never be opened by a father who had no idea.

Dad,
      I know I never treated you like a father. I was more of a bully towards you. I'm sorry I made mom divorce you. I wish we'd played that ball game, like you'd suggested. I wonder if that'd make me feel better, knowing I didn't really give you a goodbye the last time I saw you. I wish I'd given you a hug or something, you know? Though, I guess you don't know. 
        I'm sorry you had to leave, and are now living alone. I wish I hadn't gone on all those adventures. Maybe you'd still be here, and I could have that movie marathon with you. Maybe think I'm there with you, and I'll try. I don't know how this works, but I'll always watch them with you.
       I love you, dad. I'm sorry I messed everything up for you.

Morty