What My Father Might Have Wanted Me To Know

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In the quiet of my reflections, I’ve started to wonder not just about what happened — but what he might have wanted me to understand. My father. A complicated man. A man who perhaps didn’t always know how to love in the way I needed, but did in the way he could.

I think he would want me to honour the full picture — not just of him, but of myself, and of the family we both struggled to navigate.

He’d want me to look after myself first — to protect my peace, to live my life, and to use the gifts he passed onto me: my love of music, of solitude, of bad jokes, of dogs, of curiosity, of computers, and of writing. He’d want me to keep making websites, and probably smile at the fact that he let me take apart that old laptop in 1996, without ever explaining why. He just trusted me. And now I see his hand in what I do, in ways I never did before.

He’d want me to make peace with the past in a way that lets me move forward — not carry it like a stone, but carve it into something meaningful. He’d want me to love my son deeply, and model the kind of strength and vulnerability I wish I’d seen more clearly in him when I was younger.

As for my mother… I think he’d want me to ensure she’s comfortable — not out of love for her, but out of love for myself. To ensure that she dies with dignity, the same way he allowed his own mother to. Not because she deserved it, but because he deserved to act in integrity. He did what he could manage without sacrificing himself. Maybe that’s what he’d want from me too.

With my sister, I think he’d want me to keep an eye out for her. Not to rescue or be consumed by responsibility — but to hold a thread of care, a quiet witness to the bond we all once shared, even if it was frayed by chaos. Not to fix the system, but to be someone stable that she could reach toward, if she ever needed.

I think he knew I wouldn’t understand all this until he was gone. And he was right. That might be the deepest love a man can give — to plant seeds he knows he’ll never see bloom. But I see them now.

He said I’d understand when I was older. I thought that was condescending. Now I see it was simply the truth. He couldn’t tell me what my mother was — but he knew I’d come to see it on my own. And he was sorry for that. But he also trusted me. He knew I’d get there.

And I have.

So now, I live with him within me — not as the disciplinarian I feared, but as the man who loved me in the only ways he knew how. The man who fought for me to go to university when I didn’t get the grades, who threatened to take it to the papers if they didn’t honour their offer. I thought he wanted me gone — but really, he wanted me free. He wanted me to escape the system that swallowed him.

And I did.

I think he’d be proud of the man I’m becoming. And I think he’d say, “Took you long enough.” Then laugh. And then sit beside me, quietly. Proudly. Forever.