Last summer my father died from a heart attack. It wasn't expected. At all. No one was home when it happened, I was supposed to be. A divorced father alone at home, thinking of ways to get himself out of debts and still pay for my brother's expensive college. It's guilt I feel. Had I been there, maybe I could've saved him. Had I given him less stress then he wouldn't have had a heart attack. I should've apologized, should have said sorry for everything. Should have told him I loved him. But i didn't and now I'm too late. The death of my father hangs over my family like a vast endless stretch of cloud. My mother is falling apart, and in turn so am I.