This is a story just told to me by my father. It pulled at my heart strings so I thought I would share it.
My Grandpa was always a very angry man. He drank. He hit my grandma. He beat his kids, in which my dad got it the worst. My dad lived in fear of him. He couldn't put his leg out of the covers without his dad beating him because he didn't like it. As my dad got older, he started to despise him. He never told him that he loved him because he told himself he didn't. As time went on, my grandpa got sick. He had his first heart attack. Everyone was scared, but at the same time, somewhere in everyone's hearts they thought it would maybe get better if he was gone because of the things he did. The day he was to be released from the hospital, he got so happy from the news that he could go home that he suffered another heart attack. He eventually got better and he went home. Weeks later, he told my father he wanted to go get some walking shoes from Wal-Mart so he could get some exercise to maybe help his health. My father said OK. Later that day, my father was sitting in his room watching TV. He was listening to my grandpa read his paper, hearing the paper crinkle. All of a sudden, he heard a thud. He ran into his room and my grandpa was on the floor. He gasped "I can't breath, I can't breath". He was having another heart attack. My dad sat him up and he started pouring blood out of his mouth, all over my dad. My dad at that moment said "Dad, I know you were mean to me my whole life, but I don't care. I love you". That was the first time he ever said that. As my grandpa gasped for air, he said "I love you too, son". Moments later his eyes rolled in the back of his head and he passed away, in his arms. By then, an ambulance was called. A neighbor ran into the house, in his room and tried to help. My father screamed for him to get out, as he cried with him in his arms. The paramedics ran in and stuck his heart with an adrenaline needle, trying to revive him. It did not work. He was gone.