From VanNat

My dad died when I was three years old.

I have only vague memories of him. One image has stayed with me my entire life: standing far away, near what I believe was a white bench, watching as my dad was laid to rest. My mom remembers us being there, but she doesn’t remember the bench. Maybe it was real, or maybe it was simply what my young mind held onto. Either way, it has never left me.

As I grew up, I was a sad little girl in ways people couldn’t see. I missed having a dad. I watched other little girls run into their fathers’ arms and wondered what that felt like. Sometimes I would cry alone because I wanted something I could never have.

People often think losing a parent so young means the pain is less because there are so few memories. For me, it was the opposite. The older I got, the more I realized what I had lost.

My dad never got to watch me grow up. He never got to attend my school events, give me advice when life became difficult, or tell me he was proud of me. As someone who loved to dance, it still breaks my heart that we never got to share a father-daughter dance. That was a moment that should have belonged to both of us.

Father’s Day was never for me; it was a reminder of what I didn’t have. When my son was born, the holiday changed because we celebrated his dad. I loved seeing that relationship, but a part of me still felt the ache of the little girl who wished she had her own father there.

Even now, when life feels heavy, I wish I could run into my dad’s arms and hear him tell me everything will be okay. I wish he could wrap his arms around me and give me a hug. No matter how old I get, there is still a part of me that longs for that.

The truth is, I still miss him—not because I knew him well, but because I never got the chance to.

He never got to see the greatest blessings of my life. He never watched me become a mother, and he never got to meet his grandson. That loss feels just as real today as it did years ago.

I believe growing up without a dad made me more insecure. Many children grow up hearing their father tell them they are loved, valued, and protected. I didn’t have that, and I wonder how different my life might have been if I had. Would I have been more confident? Would I have doubted myself less? There are questions I will never have answers to.

My mom tells me that I was Daddy’s little girl, even if only for a short time. She tells me he was a wonderful man and a good father. I hold onto those stories because they are some of the few pieces of him that I have.

As I write these words, tears are running down my face. Not because the pain is new, but because I have missed him for my entire life.

Some losses never leave us. We simply learn to carry them.

This Father’s Day, I won’t be celebrating with my dad. But I will be remembering the man my mother says loved me so deeply. I am grateful that although I only had him for a short time, I will carry his memory with me forever.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad.

I still miss you.