I used to wonder what it might have been like
to have known my dad in the earliest years of my childhood.

That wondering carried a quiet grief—
a longing to imagine what it meant
to be held, guided, and loved by him
from the very beginning.

From the age of eleven, he was there—
shaping me, steadying me,
helping form the person I became.

And yet, a part of me still felt the absence,
as though some pages of our story had been left unwritten.

But then, I became a parent, and the wondering ended.

For in his love for my children, I saw what his love for me had always been.

I saw it in the way he cradled them as newborns— his face etched with awe,
as though each child was a miracle
he had waited his whole life to meet.

I saw it in the joy of first steps— his arms outstretched, a sanctuary of safety,
calling them forward into his embrace.

And I understood:
I had not lost out.
I had not been deprived.

Through my children, I was given a second childhood— lived in the warmth of a grandfather’s arms, a love that filled every space I once thought empty.

That was my dad’s gift. A love that came not too late, but exactly when it was meant to.
A love that endured, and echoed through generations.

And so today, I do not only grieve his absence— I honor his presence.
I honor the man who stepped into my life
and gave me more than I ever knew I needed.

I honor the father who shaped me, the grandfather who adored my children, the man whose love will never leave us.

My dad’s legacy is not only in the memories we carry, but in the love that continues to live on— in me, in my children, and in all of us who knew him.

That is how he remains with us.
That is how his story continues.

Forever loved.
Forever missed.
Forever my dad