What I Never Got to Say to My Dad

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It’s been eight years since my dad died.
I don’t even know the exact date. That says a lot, I think.

Growing up, the version of him I was left with was one painted by my mum—a man who was angry, resentful, and sad.
And to be honest, some of that was true.
He hurt me. Physically. Emotionally. He embarrassed me in front of others. He didn’t protect me in moments I needed protecting. That’s real.

But it’s not the whole story. Not anymore.

There were flashes in him—moments of joy that I never saw in my mum. He came alive around the dogs. He had a peace about him when he was watching films. He took pride in telling terrible jokes—really terrible ones—the kind that made everyone groan, but you could tell how much he loved them. He’d light up in those moments like a child being seen. And somehow, those jokes were him—playful, awkward, a little out of step, but unmistakably proud.

He also loved chess and Scrabble. He kept himself busy. Structured. He had a routine that gave his days rhythm. It wasn’t a life filled with rich relationships or deep emotional connection—but it was a life he managed to make work. It looked a lot like survival. But there was some joy in that survival. A kind of quiet resilience.

And that, too, lives on in me.

Especially the music. He loved music deeply. And I find myself playing the kind of music he loved when I’m just doing life—decorating, walking through the house. It keeps something alive. It keeps him alive, in some way.

At his funeral, I cried. Probably the only one who did.
And people told me not to. Told me I shouldn’t.

But I wasn’t crying for what we had.
I was crying for what we never had.

That’s the grief I still carry—the absence of connection. The conversations we never had. The man I never got to know. The dad I always wished he could’ve been.

I used to see him as weak for staying with Mum. Now I wonder if he was just stuck—worn down by her control, knowing that no matter what he did, she’d always win. Maybe he saw how she used me to meet her needs. Maybe he knew that trying to pull me away would only backfire. I wonder if that’s why he told me to “go off with your mother” so many times. Because he knew she’d always have the upper hand.

And I wonder—what were his options? What could he have done, really, if he did have my best interest at heart?
He didn’t leave, and part of me used to hate him for that.
But maybe staying was his way of not losing me altogether.

I wish we’d had a chance to talk as adults.
I think I’d understand him more.

I’m not excusing the pain. But I’m also not pretending he was just one thing.

He was messy. Human. He was hurting. And still—he found ways to laugh, to structure his days, to survive. That alone is more than I can say for some people. My mum, for example—I’m not sure I’ve ever seen her experience joy.

He did. And I think he tried to hold onto it, in the only ways he knew how.

I carry some of that with me now. The good parts.

And maybe, just maybe—that’s a kind of connection too.

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If you’ve lost someone you never really had a chance to know, you’re not alone. Grieving the absence—the “what could’ve been”—is just as real. And sometimes, the act of remembering with compassion is the first step toward healing.