Once my father asked me to hold his hammer while he repaired something, so we could have some time to talk to each other. For 22 years, after I left home for college, he called me every Sunday at 9 am. He was always interested in my life and how my family was doing, and I never once heard him complain about his own life. Nine years ago when I bought my first house, my father, 67 years old, spent eight hours a day painting it for three days. He would not allow me to pay someone to have it done. All he asked for was a glass of iced tea and for me to hold a paint brush for him and talk to him. But I was too busy. Five years ago, at age 71, my father spent five hours putting together a swingset   for my daughter. Again, all he asked was that I get him a glass of iced tea and talk to him. But again, I was too busy. Four years ago, my father drove all the way from Denver to Topeka, with an eight-foot Colorado blue spruce   in his trunk, so that my husband and I could have a part of Colorado growing on our land. I was preparing for a trip that weekend and couldn't spend much time with him. Then, one day, my father telephoned me as usual, this time from my sister's home in Florida. We talked about the tree he had brought me, "Fat Albert", but that morning he called it "Fat Oscar", and he seemed to have forgotten some things. I had to get to church, so I cut the conversation short. The call came at 4:40 pm that day: my father was in hospital in Florida with an aneurysm  . I got on a plane immediately, and on the way I thought of all the times I had not taken the time to talk to my father. I realized that I had no idea who he was or what his deepest thoughts were. I promised that when I arrived, I would make up for lost time. I arrived in Florida at 1 am. My father had passed away at 9:12 pm. This time it was he who did not have time to talk to me. What's the best title of this passage?
What a good father! How busy I am. Time keeps going. My father and our family.