My father, on his deathbed, asked if I had any regrets about our relationship. The cancer had taken most of his voice, so all he could do was whisper, “Regrets?” I tossed my head back and laughed. I said, “Oh my God, Dad.” I laughed again. I did not, and do not, have regrets. Well, I suppose I regret that I cannot put this scene in a story because it is a cliché. (Who tosses their head back anyway?) Read more memoir at The Sun