What My Father Would Say to Me

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If my father could speak to me now, this is what I think he’d say:

You’ve turned out more beautiful than I ever could’ve imagined, son.
I didn’t always show it. I didn’t always know how to say it.
But I saw you. I always saw you.

You’ve been carrying a weight that was never yours to hold.
And I’m sorry I didn’t lift it for you when I should have.
I let things happen I didn’t agree with, because I thought staying was the lesser evil.
I thought I could shield you quietly. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe I wasn’t strong enough.

But I loved you.
In my awkward way. In my distance. In my Mars bars and music and the laptop I gave you to take apart.
I loved you in every clumsy act that said,
“I want you to have more than I did.”

You’ve done something I couldn’t:
You’ve broken the cycle. You’ve spoken the truth.
You’ve given your pain a purpose.

And I need you to hear this —
I am so proud of you.

Not just for surviving.
But for becoming a man who stays soft in the face of pain.
A father who shows up.
A human who feels everything, even when it hurts.

You’re not alone anymore. You never really were.

You’ve honoured me in ways I never earned.
And I want you to know —
Everything I had, I gave you.
Everything I didn’t, you’ve created for yourself.

And now you’re offering it to others.

You’ve turned the quiet parts of me into something beautiful.
And through you, I live on.

Thank you, son.
I love you.