Missing Him: Twenty-Two Years Later

Twenty‑two years ago today, my dad died. Even now, I can still feel the shock of that night in my bones — the phone call from the hospital, the full‑body sobs as I drove to pick up my sister, the way grief swallowed every inch of air around me. I could write out every moment from that night; it lives in me as vividly as if it happened yesterday.

The pain of losing him has softened over the years, but on days like today, it rises closer to the surface. Grief has a way of reminding you that love doesn’t disappear — it just changes shape.

My dad was not a perfect man. He made mistakes long before I came along, mistakes that hurt the children who came before me in ways I’ll never fully understand. But for reasons I’ll never quite be able to explain, he got it mostly right with me. He was quiet, stoic, a man who answered questions but rarely volunteered anything. And yet — he showed up. Every softball game, every volleyball match, every cheerleading event. He was there.

I’d say we were close, though I’m not sure how close you can truly be to someone who keeps their inner world locked away. Then again, maybe that’s just how parents are — loving us fiercely while holding their own stories quietly.

In the later years of his life, I saw him trying. Trying to show up for the larger family. Trying to be better. Trying to make amends he never quite knew how to make. Through my parents’ divorce, he became one of those “underdog” souls I instinctively want to protect — the broken ones I want to make sure feel loved. I’ll never know how much that shaped the way I saw him.

But I do know this: losing him was crushing. And even now, I still think of him as my hero. Not because he was flawless or full of wisdom or the kind of dad who always knew what to say. He was my hero because he never stopped trying. He was flawed, but he did his best to make me feel like I mattered, like I had a home, like I was loved.

For that, I am endlessly grateful.

I love you, Dad. Missing you today and every day.