He died, I was 25, had just had my second child, and had this strange feeling all evening. It was a Thursday night. I checked on the baby all the time, just waiting for something to happen to her. Then, at 11PM my brother called. My father had had a heart attack at an airport in London. I was thinking; Oh, the reason for my anxiousness! My worry for the baby totally disappeared. I felt absolutely calm.
The only scary feeling I had was realizing that my generation is the oldest. We are the next to die. Most people are not faced with that until they are grown up. Or old, even.
He married again when I turned 18, though he moved in with his future wife when I was 16. My brother and I lived alone in the old house with the large garden.
I was always trying to impress him. To be good enough. However none of my future plans were acknowledged. I was never encouraged to go for any of my ideas, and even when I suggested following his career, I was told I could never do it. I really never wanted to. I just wanted some encouragement. And I never understood why I never got it.
I started remembering things after he died. I think (no, I know) I got depressed. I stopped sleeping. And again there was no story, no timeline to follow. Fragments, flashbacks, bits and pieces, that I couldn’t get to fit together with the life I had created after finishing my chaos at 16. I met a man I married, at 18. I had the first of three lovely daughters at 23, the second at 25. I had a job, a life. It was ok, sort of.
Until I started to remember.
I don’t miss him at all. Remembering has almost destroyed me.