An Imperfect Stranger

"I wish there was a stranger, sitting in this room," my father mumbled as I watched him from across the room, in a Chicago hospital. I sat stoically in the corner of the room, but still listened intently as he laid dying, mumbling confessions off into space.
"You know Chris, I don't regret the way I treated your mother," he muttered.
"What about me?" I asked.
"What do you mean 'what about me?' I gave you everything you could have ever asked for; a car, an education, money so you could do God knows what."
Maybe it was from the Xanax or the three Valium I took in the cab ride over here, but…