I can't stop feeling guilty.

Rationally, I do know that it's what my Dad would have wanted. He would have been fuming if I'd turned down going to university or even put it off for a year to stay at home with him, after I got the news. He'd have wanted me out at the pub with my new friends or slaving over an essay to try and make all the oncoming debts worth while. I know that. I know my Dad, and I know that he'd be rolling his eyes if he could read my mind right now. He'd be saying, "don't be ridiculous", and "stop saying sorry" for this kind of thing.

He isn't here though, and hearing that in my head doesn't make the guilt go away, even if I am hearing it in his voice. Slight Northern twinge, elongated pauses. I can still hear it like he's speaking into my ear. I am so scared of forgetting.

But that doesn't mean I shouldn't have stayed.

Parents aren't always right and that's a really hard and scary thing to accept because all my childhood I grew up thinking that they knew best. But they don't: some of their views are outdated. We used to argue while watching the news. We planned to vote differently in the EU referendum, and I stand by my decision.

I don't know if my dad was right.

I got the news that he was terminal a few months before my A-level exams. I got 'special circumstances' applied to my performance in the exams. Lucky me.

I told some friends, at a sleepover over the summer. "My dad is dying."

Hugs and tears in the dark, pretending that it helped even a tiny bit. Really, it didn't help at all.

A friend said, "you know, you could put off uni for a year. Stay at home, stay with your dad." Or words to that effect. 

I thought: my dad would kill me.

Now I think: rather me than him.

I didn't know that it would be the last year of his life, the last summer that I'd have two parents to come home to. They said, "it could be ten months, or ten years!" when I went to university he could still sit at the dinner table, he could still walk from room to room. He could still even drive.

When he came back, he couldn't do any of those things. I still left after the Christmas holidays. This time, the thought of staying didn't even cross my mind and I was happy and I was miles away.

And now he's gone, and it's the summer but it has never felt more like the worst worst winter.

All that's left is this horrible guilt and ache and itch, because I left when I should have stayed. I could have seen him one last time, I could have held his hand when it got bad and been there and told him that I loved him more often than I did. I would have seen how much he needed me to.

I should have stayed. I should have replied to his texts more regularly than I did. I should have called more often. I should have come home and spoken to him about the things he loved instead of coming home and still coming and going, coming and going, coming and going. I should have told him that I loved him more often than I did. I should have set up a Skype call. I should have come home, just two days before I'd planned, and seen him, one last time.

I should have stayed.

I should have stayed.

But I left.