Not because. For. My father did not die because of my mistake.

He died for my life — made a choice, in the half-second he had, to spend himself so that I could go on.

And those are not the same story at all.

One is a story about guilt, and it had been quietly poisoning me for two decades.

The other is a story about love — the largest love there is, the kind that does not hesitate — and it asks something completely different of the person who receives it.

Guilt asks you to punish yourself.