The first thing I always did on Father’s Day was call him. Even before brushing my teeth, before the day properly began. I’d just reach for the phone. Every year. That call was the start of the day, like muscle memory.
“Happy Father’s Day, Daddy,” I’d say, usually still half-asleep.
There was something grounding about that exchange. It was our little tradition. Just us.
This morning, I woke up and reached for my phone again, almost out of habit. And then I remembered. He’s not here anymore. There’s no call to make. It’s just silence now.
It’s been more than a year since I lost him. March last year. I’ve had time, technically. But no one really tells you what to do with time when someone you love is gone. They say time heals. But that’s not entirely true. What time really does is teach you how to carry it. The missing, the memories, the love. You get used to the weight, but it’s always there.
Today, like last year, I sat with my tea and let the morning be what it was. Quiet. A bit hollow. But not empty. Because he’s still here in ways I can’t explain. Not physically, no. But in how I think, in the way I talk to people, in the small ways I try to do the right thing, even when no one’s watching.
His birthday is coming up too, June 20th. It used to be such a joyful date in our house.
It’s not a celebration the way it used to be. But it’s something.
Grief doesn’t always look like tears. Sometimes it’s just a quiet. Sometimes it’s a pause in the middle of a sentence. Or the way you find yourself talking to someone who isn’t there. And honestly, I do that often with him. I tell him what’s happening in my life, like I used to.
Some people think you move on. You don’t. You move with the person in a different way. You carry them. You keep finding them in places you didn’t expect, your own tone of voice, your habits, the things you didn’t know you learned from them.
He taught me so much. Not through lectures or big advice, but just by being himself.
Today is hard. It’s quiet. It’s full of those little reminders that he’s not here. But it’s also full of love.
To anyone who’s missing their father today, I want to say: I get it. There are no perfect words. No way to skip how you feel. Just take your time. Feel what you need to feel. Let it come and go. Talk to him. Maybe write. Whatever helps you hold on to what mattered.
And to those who still have their dad, make that phone call. Say what you need to say. Say thank you. Not because it’s Father’s Day. Just because you can.