My dad died. Such a strange thing to say. Who knew dads actually die. So-in-so’s dad, sure. Not my dad, though. He’s my dad. He was my dad. I’ll have to work on that phrasing. 

I loved my dad. He wasn’t really like a father to me so much as he was just Daddy. He was more of a benevolent visitor, usually jovial, and he told the best riddles. Dinner at his house always meant good food, great wine, and fantastic conversation at a minimum. Daddy was exceedingly brilliant, well-respected by his colleagues, and loved by many. He was successful and well-traveled, he had a beautiful family, and we all adored him. Daddy was wonderful. He was also completely out of my reach and way out of my league.

Daddy gave me some of his brilliance (though the lion’s share went to my sisters), he gave me his smile and a set of dimples that are just to die for, and every so often he gave me a card filled with cash. He never gave me his time, though. Daddy never told me that he loved me. Never. That really takes it out of you over the years. Part of me keeps hoping someone will prove me wrong and show me a time he said it that I missed. I would much rather be wrong and feel like a fool that he loved than be right and know I was just a part of his shadow that he was indifferent to. 

It feels almost inappropriate to say this now that he’s gone, but I’m certain Daddy would rather I forgo any watered down b.s. and just have it out. So I will. A big part of me hates my dad. There, I said it. I hate the man. I spent my whole life loving him, a little less every day, until he wasted it all away. It’s so hard to keep loving someone who doesn’t love you back. 

I bought a bottle of his favorite whiskey the day before he died because I knew his death was imminent. I figured I’d have a few solemn drinks and a few solemn days, and that would be that. But instead, I cried. I’m still crying. I figured since we weren’t close there wasn’t all that much to lose. I guess I didn’t really think about it. As I said, I didn’t get the lion’s share. 

Though it took him dying for me to understand this, it’s painfully obvious now - just because he didn’t love me has never meant that I don’t love him. It just means I’m angry. I was angry at him when he was alive, and now that he's gone I am even angrier. I love my dad, and I'm angry that his dying hurts this much. I have always loved my dad and I told him every time I saw him, and now I am livid that he died without ever telling me the same.