Dad, I Miss You

To My Dad,

You died on June 8th.
It was supposed to be just another weekend.
We had gone to Mexico to visit family. You dropped us off at my aunt’s house that night—told us you’d come back in the morning. You always came back. You were always on time.
Except that day.
And somehow, I already knew.
Something inside me unraveled.

I called your phone over and over. Twenty times. Maybe more. Hoping to hear your voice.
But instead, a police officer answered.
He told me you had fallen unconscious… and died.
I asked him if it was a joke. He told me it wasn’t something to joke about.
And everything went silent.

You were barely fifty years old.
One month shy of your birthday.
Days away from Father’s Day.
You were supposed to be here. Still. Alive. Laughing. Yelling at the TV. Making dumb jokes. Complaining about traffic. Existing.
But you’re not.

We couldn’t even see your body right away. It took days. And when we finally did, you were just… there. Cold. Motionless. Stripped of life and dignity. Lying on a steel table. Covered in autopsy scars.
And I broke.
I collapsed like a house built too close to the edge.
That wasn’t you—but it was you.
And I’ll never unsee it.

You were the only man I ever loved. The only one I ever respected.
You weren’t perfect. You were human. But you were real. You were mine.
You were my best friend.
And now I have to pretend to be the man of the house.
But I’m not a man. I’m a broken boy who lost the only person who ever made the world feel somewhat safe.

I feel like a failure, Dad.
You never got to see me grow into the kind of man I wanted to be.
You never saw me with someone I love. You never met the children you always wondered about.
You used to say you didn’t think you’d live long enough to see your grandkids.
You were right.

After you died, people showed up for Mom and my sister.
They wrapped them in kindness, in comfort.
But me? All I got were hands on my back and a few words:
“You’re the man now.”
“It’s on you.”
“Be strong.”
Be strong?
How do you be strong when your entire sense of strength died with your father?

I’m not envious.
I’m just tired.
Tired of pretending I’m okay.
Tired of pretending I’m capable of filling the shoes you left behind.
I don’t want to be a man.
I just want you.

You worked yourself into the grave. Always putting everyone before yourself. Always saying no to doctor’s visits because of money. You finally agreed to go, and you died the day before the appointment.
You didn’t deserve that.
None of us did.

Since you’ve been gone, I barely sleep.
When I do, I see you in my dreams.
I beg you to go to the hospital.
I watch you die over and over again.
Sometimes I try to bring you back. I press my fists into your chest.
And sometimes it works—just for a moment.
Then you’re gone again.
And I wake up gasping, alone, like always.

Dad, I miss you so much.
It hurts in ways I can’t describe.
It’s not just sadness. It’s a kind of rot. A decay from the inside out. Like the light in me died with you and now I’m just wandering around with your shadow on my back.

I used to cry at night just thinking about losing you.
Now I cry because it already happened.

If there’s an afterlife, I hope you’re there.
I hope you’re resting.
I hope you’re not in pain anymore.
I hope, somehow, you can still see me—because I still talk to you like you can.

I’m trying, Dad.
I really am.
But this life without you is heavy.
And I’m still just trying to find my footing in a world that no longer feels like home.

I love you more than words will ever say.
I hope I make you proud—even if I never feel like I’m enough.
Even if I’m still just a scared son missing his father.

Please keep watching over me.
Please visit me in my dreams—if only just to say hi.

Your son,
Ralph