I was thirty when Dad slipped away to wherever it is old souls go.
Now, Im thirty-two, yet our final conversation aches inside me as if it happened just last night.
I was always that troublesome child forever starting things and never finishing them.
I went to three different universities, each for a different course.
The first I abandoned in the second term, bored out of my mind.
The second, four terms in, vanished in favour of nights out, wandering, scattering myself in all directions.
The third never even made it through autumn; I dropped it before Christmas.
While my sisters marched steadily degrees polished, jobs lined up, timelines neat and tidy I leapt from idea to idea, chasing something I could never quite name, promising that Ill find my thing. Everyone at home saw it, but Dad felt it most deeply.
He was my person.
Not just a father he was my mate.
He took me to play snooker in smoky pubs, dragged me along to football matches, toasted me at weekend barbecues with his pals.
While my sisters had timetables and boundaries, things were different for me.
Hed say, Youre a lad, youll learn what you need round the corners. I grew up with freedom, no proper rules, no real pressure.
Over the years, that unravelling became my weakness.
I couldnt hold onto anything not studies, not jobs, not rhythm.
Three months before he departed, we had the hardest talk of my life.
The world became foggy we sat out in the garden, him smoking, me flicking through my phone searching nonsense.
He asked me to help him back inside.
Son, Im not disappointed in you.
Im disappointed in myself, he said.
I raised you wrong.
Spoilt you.
Shielded you from hardship.
I made you soft for the world. I said nothing.
My eyes stung, but tears stayed locked away.
I wanted to say something wise, something grownup, but all I managed was, Ill change. He didnt answer.
Just kept staring down.
Then one ordinary morning three months later, he got up to brush his teeth and fell to the bathroom floor.
It happened suddenly no farewell, no hospital, no final words.
I lost more than a father; the one person who still believed I could sort myself out was gone, even though he was tired of waiting.
After the funeral, rage blossomed quietly inside me, aimed at myself.
I stopped going out.
Quit drinking.
Stopped wasting hours.
I enrolled in law, driven by the urge to prove something.
I get up at five, work shifts, study deep into the night.
Some days I forget to eat, but I keep moving.
Every exam I take, Dad is in my thoughts.
Every passing mark is a whispered, See?
I can.
Two years have passed.
Im making progress.
I dont miss terms.
Dont dodge lectures.
I dont let myself off easily.
My sisters watch me differently now, backing me quietly.
Mum says Dad would be proud.
I dont know about proud, but perhaps he wouldnt leave thinking I was an utter failure.
The hardest thing isnt the studying, or the slog of work, or the exhaustion.
Its not being able to ring him up, tell him I passed a tough exam, that I finally did something right, that Im living differently.
He was my partner in mischief the one who taught me to stride through life unafraid, but also, unknowingly, left me with no anchor.
Now its my job to build it myself.
Some nights, when I get home late dragging a rucksack stuffed with law books, I sit on my bed, staring at a picture of the two of us out walking, beers in hand, grinning.
And always in my head I whisper, Old man, I never proved it to you in time, but you werent completely wrong about me.
I want to be the best version of myself for him.
I dream that Ill manage it, in the end.
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