I never knew my mother; she died young, leaving my father a sad, distant man. A picture in his study was the only glimpse I had of her beauty. My father rarely acknowledged me beyond basic greetings. I longed for his affection, but it never came.

When I was 18, during one of my father’s business parties, a woman revealed a painful truth. She asked if I knew why my father hated me and then coldly said, “He believes you killed your mother, Karen.” Shocked, I confronted my grandmother, who confirmed my mother had died in childbirth.

My father overheard our conversation and said, “Your mother’s death is none of your business.” Distraught, I fled and got into a car accident. I woke up in the hospital to find my father by my side, tearfully saying, “I don’t hate you, Karen. I love you. And I don’t blame you for your mother’s death; I blame myself.”

He explained that he worked tirelessly to support us, and when my mother died, he wasn’t there. “I blamed myself,” he confessed. “You look just like your mother, and each time I looked at you, my heart was torn apart by grief and guilt.” Realizing his mistakes, he embraced me, showing his love for the first time. It marked a new beginning for both of us.