Losing a parent is one of those things you never fully get over. There are moments in life that are always marked by the quiet absence of someone who should be there. I’ve lived through many of those moments. My graduation—felt incomplete without my dad. I’ve always wished he could’ve been there to meet my closest friends, the people who’ve carried me through so much. I wanted him to be there to cry to when people hurt me, to have that protective father figure who would tell me when to quit and when to persevere.
Then I met the one I wish he could have met the most. The one who liked my Hinge profile and started the conversation with a mere and simple “Hi,” the one who insisted on taking me on our first date the moment he landed back in the country. The one who caught me off guard—not with grand gestures, but with sincerity so disarming that my heart, almost without permission, handed itself over.
This year has felt like one of those years—one where the weight of his absence was especially heavy. In the highs, I longed to share my joy with him, to see him proud of the life I’m building, the choices I’m making. There were countless moments where I reached for him in my thoughts, only to be met by the silence of his absence.
This was the first year I had to stop and really think about how many years it’s been since he died. Somehow, in the blur of grief, time became tangled—dates felt distant and close all at once. I never wanted to mark the passage of years without him, but this year forced me to confront it. I realised just how much time had passed, how many milestones I’ve faced alone, and yet the ache of his absence feels just as fresh. It’s strange, isn’t it? To live so much life, yet still feel that same deep longing, as if no time has passed at all.
But then, two days ago, I got a Facebook notification (I know, Facebook—ancient, right?). The notification was from the one I wish he met the most. It was a post acknowledging my dad’s life, and words can’t even begin to describe what it did to my heart and how it altered my brain chemistry.
It’s touching beyond words to have a partner who understands my grief so deeply, someone who stands with me in my efforts to not let my dad’s memory fade. He doesn’t just tolerate my pain; he honors it. He shows up in the quiet moments, in the anniversaries that go unspoken but are heavy on my heart. He reminds me that my dad’s presence still matters, even though he’s not here.
Words of affirmation were never his love language, but he’s learned to love me in the way I best feel love. He sees me in ways that bring me comfort, in ways that tell me I’m truly known. He’s taught me to let go of those who have hurt me, yet still challenges me to forgive. He loves me in the way I remember my dad loving my mum—steadfast, deeply protective, and with a kind of devotion that feels both tender and unwavering. His presence feels like a constant reminder that healing and love are possible, even in the hardest moments.
It’s hard to carry that knowledge—that my dad never got to see this part of my life, this happiness. Sometimes, the sadness consumes me, overwhelming me with the weight of how unfair it all feels. The unfairness of how many moments he has missed. I resent the one who drove recklessly and took him away from me. When I look at the one I wish he met the most, the sadness becomes sharper. It’s a reminder of what my dad will never get to experience, and of what has been stolen from us both.
And yet, in my heart, I believe my dad would’ve loved him. He would’ve seen the same things I do: the patience, the laughter, the way he cares so deeply. He would’ve seen this love.
I hope that heaven lets him have a glimpse. I pray he can see from above, that somehow he’s able to witness the joy and love I’ve found. I think about the verse in Hebrews that speaks of the saints cheering us on from heaven, like a great cloud of witnesses (Hebrews 12:1). I like to imagine my dad is part of that crowd, cheering me on, watching me grow and guiding me in ways I can’t see. Maybe he’s already seen the one I wish he met the most.
The Harmony Edit 