I used to deliberately lie about his age—to close friends, to demanding classmates, even to unsuspecting teachers.
“Yeah, my dad’s in his fifties, easily,” I’d confidently say, deliberately shaving off a whole decade as if it meant absolutely nothing.
But the stark truth?
He was precisely sixty-eight years old when I was born into this world.
Growing up, he undeniably felt more like a grandpa than a conventional dad to me.
At school events, he invariably wore those unfashionable brown loafers, his plaid shirts never quite tucked in properly, and he moved with an awkward gait, as if he didn’t quite belong in the vibrant crowd of younger parents.
Kids would openly whisper behind my back.
One particularly bold boy even outright asked if he was, in fact, my great-grandfather.
I would always laugh it off, pretending it didn’t sting.
By the time I reached high school, a deep-seated resentment started to relentlessly boil over within me.
We argued constantly, our voices often raised in frustration.
Once, in a fit of rage, I screamed that I wished he’d never had me at all—that it was incredibly selfish to bring a child into the world knowing you’d be too old for all the “important stuff” of their youth.
He didn’t yell back, not a single word.
He just sat there silently in his worn, familiar recliner, his eyes blank and visibly hurt by my cruel words.
I foolishly thought I had definitively won that painful fight.
Then came my high school graduation.
Everyone else had loud, boisterous, excited families—cheering loudly, waving colorful signs, openly crying with unbridled pride.
Mine stood quietly at the very edge of the vast crowd, holding a wrinkled, obviously hand-drawn poster: “SO PROUD OF YOU, MY GIRL.”
He looked significantly smaller than I had ever remembered him.
I almost walked right past him, pretending not to notice.
My friend Salome playfully pulled me into a group selfie, and in the corner of my eye, I distinctly saw him wiping his eyes when he mistakenly thought no one else was watching his display of emotion.
When I finally, reluctantly walked over to him, he gently handed me a card.
“Open it later, Michael,” he said softly, his voice raspy.
“I know I wasn’t a perfect father.”
I didn’t open it that very night.
I carelessly tossed it into the side pocket of my large tote bag and completely forgot about its existence.
Summer arrived—filled with lazy beach days, demanding part-time jobs, and exhilarating late-night parties.
I vaguely told myself I’d eventually get around to reading it.
It wasn’t until I was diligently packing my belongings for college that I stumbled upon it—creased, tucked haphazardly under old receipts and loose hair ties.
His familiar handwriting was neatly scrawled on the front, simply my name.
Inside, a poignant note written in shaky blue ink awaited me:
“You made an old man feel like he still had a profound purpose in life.
I don’t often say much right, but I’ve always watched you with a quiet, immense pride.
If I don’t get to see your next chapters unfold, please just know this one truth: I have absolutely no regrets in life.
Only immeasurable gratitude for you.”
No regrets.
The realization hit me with the force of a physical punch to the chest.
He didn’t mention my outburst from that fight.
He didn’t try to guilt me with his words.
Just… pure, unconditional love.
And perhaps a quiet, gentle goodbye I hadn’t even realized I was given at the time.
That was the last card I ever received from him.
During my freshman year of college, I frequently missed his persistent calls.
I often replied with quick, dismissive texts: “Busy with classes. Talk to you later.”
Meanwhile, my roommate Tasha would gush excitedly about her dad—about thoughtful care packages, funny TikTok videos he sent, and surprise Venmo transfers “just for coffee money.”
One day, she innocently asked about mine.
“He’s not really the texting type, Tasha,” I casually said.
“He’s pretty old-school.”
I didn’t bother to mention the slow, shuffling drag in his walk that had recently developed.
Or how his hands had begun visibly trembling whenever he held his phone up to talk.
Then, during my demanding midterms, Aunt Lenora called me, her voice laced with urgency.
His neighbor had tragically found him collapsed in the backyard.
He was in the hospital—and the situation didn’t look promising at all.
I immediately skipped my final exam and frantically caught a red-eye flight home.
When I rushed into his sterile hospital room, the rhythmic machines monitoring his vitals were significantly louder than his shallow breaths.
His eyes slowly opened when he faintly heard my voice.
He smiled—just a tiny, fragile smile.
But it was undeniably warm and full of recognition.
“You came,” he whispered, his voice weak.
Like he genuinely hadn’t expected me to be there.
We didn’t talk about the unread card.
Or the painful fight we’d had.
Or all the numerous missed phone calls from me.
We simply sat there, together in silence.
I gently held his hand, even though it felt incredibly fragile, like crumpled paper in my own.
A kind nurse mentioned he’d been diligently keeping a personal journal.
She said it helped him stay mentally sharp and engaged.
After he passed away peacefully, I found it carefully wrapped in a soft cloth, tucked away in his dresser drawer.
It wasn’t fancy or elaborate—just a simple spiral notebook with a faded blue cover.
Inside were countless pages filled with his deepest thoughts, cherished memories, and even tiny, endearing sketches of me as a baby.
Poems he had painstakingly written but never once shared with anyone.
One particular entry stopped me completely cold, piercing my heart:
“She yelled at me today.
Told me I was far too old to be her dad.
But I’d still choose her a hundred times over, without a second thought.
I just hope someday she truly understands I genuinely did my absolute best for her.”
I do now, Dad.
I tragically wasted so much precious time focusing solely on what he wasn’t in my eyes.
Too old.
Too slow.
Too profoundly different from other dads.
I never truly stopped to genuinely see what he intrinsically was—constantly present.
Unconditionally loving.
Quietly strong in every single way that truly mattered in life.
He wasn’t physically there to help me move into my very first apartment, all those years later.
He didn’t live long enough to see me get my very first professional job.
But everything I am today… is undeniably because of him.
Love doesn’t always manifest itself how we anticipate or expect.
Sometimes, it’s a wrinkled, crudely drawn sign at your high school graduation.
A deeply personal, handwritten card tucked away.
A hot, comforting meal patiently waiting for you after an incredibly hard, exhausting day.
I still instinctively reach for my phone sometimes.
Desperately wanting to tell him—I truly get it now, Dad.
I finally see it all with clarity.
But all I can do now is live my life in a way that truly honors the quiet, unwavering strength he selflessly gave to me.
If someone truly loves you in your life—even in awkward, quiet, imperfect ways—please don’t wait like I tragically did.
Tell them how much they mean to you, before it’s too late.a
