The Gifts My Father Gave Me
June 07, 2025
A tender reflection on my father's quiet influence, and how his presence lives on in the parts of me I’m still learning to embrace.
For a long time, I wasn’t sure how to feel about my dad.
He shouted a lot. That’s what I remembered most.
I used to think it was about control. About power. About fear.
And maybe it was—at times.
But I also see now: it was the only way he knew how to get through to me.
He used to say, “I shout because I want you to think.”
And it never worked. But I believe now that he meant it. That he wanted to help me. That he was trying in the only way he could.
My dad didn’t always know how to be close. But he tried.
He showed me the world in ways that mattered—through music, through art, through football, through food.
He brought home an old laptop in 1996 and let me take it apart and put it back together. I didn’t know it then, but that was his way of inviting me into something he loved—his fascination with technology.
And now I build websites for fun. It’s like he handed me a seed without saying a word and trusted I’d figure out how to grow it.
He made sure I had good food. He gave me Mars bars when he saw I was hurting—because that’s what helped him cope when he was young.
He taught me the basics of cooking, of looking after myself.
And though he didn’t always say it, I think he trusted I’d be okay.
He loved bad jokes. He loved solitude. He loved dogs.
And I love all those things, too.
He once said, “You’ve got your whole life ahead of you.”
And he meant it. He wasn’t rushing me.
He kept saying, “A man who loves his work never works a day in his life.”
That stuck with me. I think it’s why I let myself pursue things like poker. Why I trust that joy and meaning can coexist.
He also said, more than once, “You’ll understand when you’re older.”
At the time, it felt patronizing. But now I see:
He couldn’t tell me who my mother was.
But he knew one day I’d see it. Just like he had to see the truth about his own mother.
And maybe he was sorry.
Maybe he knew I wouldn’t truly understand him until after he was gone.
That’s probably the deepest kind of love a man can offer:
to be misunderstood by the person he loves most, and to still keep loving them anyway.
There were rugby matches he didn’t come to.
I think he thought he embarrassed me.
But the truth is—I wanted him there.
And now I realize: maybe he was scared. Or maybe he didn’t know if he was wanted.
Maybe he was just doing his best to give me space while still watching over me.
He used to talk fondly about his own father.
I never met him.
But I feel their line in me—quiet men, maybe a little misunderstood, but deeply caring.
One of the most defining things he did for me?
When I failed my A-levels, I thought I’d lost my place at university.
But he made them honour my unconditional offer. He told them if they didn’t, he’d go to the papers.
At the time, I thought he just wanted me out of the house.
But now I know: he wanted to push me into the world.
He believed I could handle it.
He knew I needed to get out of the system I was trapped in, to gain independence, to begin a life of my own.
He once said, “I didn’t know how difficult it would be to keep up with you.”
I didn’t get it then. But I do now.
He saw something in me I hadn’t even seen in myself.
I carry so much of him in me—
My love of solitude.
My love of music, and writing, and dogs.
My love of children, my protection of innocence,
my desire to help others, even when I come across as misunderstood.
He gave me more than I ever realized.
And I’m still discovering just how much of him lives on in me.
I forgive him.
It’s okay.
I can see now how hard his life was.
And I know he loved me the way he knew how.
That’s enough for me.