Tomorrow marks 20 weeks since you died.
20 weeks since I watched you take your last breath.
20 painful weeks where I have yearned to hear your voice one more time.
20 long weeks since I held your hand as you left and desperately clung onto it because letting go meant losing you was real.
And it’s more than 20 weeks since you lied to me.
Dad, you said I’d be alright.
I asked you, remember?
I asked you how I was going to live without you and you told me, you told me, Dad. You promised me that I would be alright. You said it. You said those words to me, Dad.
Dad, you lied.
So much has happened in those 20 weeks and I’m struggling.
I don’t know where to turn.
You said I’d be alright and I’m not. You said everything would be alright and it’s not. Jimmy isn’t very well and the rest, well, you know how it is. And I don’t know what to do.
I never realised how much I actually confided in you. How much I relied on you for support or advice or just for someone to argue something out with.
I never realised how precious your encouragement was. I screenshot your texts telling me how proud you were of me, or how much you loved me and then how much you loved me more.
I just want to hear you say those words again.
I want you to answer your phone with the exaggerated accented, ‘Hel-LO.’
I want you to say alright, babes?
I want you to make fun of me and tell me really bad jokes or one of your animated stories that would make me laugh.
I want you here, with me and Jimmy and the kids because we need you right now.
People ask how I am and I tell them I’m fine.
Or, as you said I would be, ‘I’m alright.’
Even writing the words seems hollow and empty. Saying them even more so.
Because it’s not true.
I’m not fine and I’m not alright.
I’m lost and I’m sad and I’m hurting and I miss you, Dad.
Today would have been your 70th birthday, Dad. You never got to have the big family party you wanted but I’m sure you were with us for our little camp earlier this week. Jimmy thinks you would have been proud of us. I know you always were, no matter what.
Give me a sign you’re still with us, Dad. Let me know we aren’t alone right now because we really, really need you to look after us.
And wherever you are, I hope you have a happy birthday and you know that we are missing you.
Maybe one day you will be right. Maybe one day I’ll be alright. For now though, Dad, it seems you lied.
I’ll love you always, Dad.