I was thirty when my dad passed away.
Now Im thirty-two, and that last conversation still aches, as if it happened yesterday.
I was always the troublemaker in the family starting things and never finishing them.
I attended three different courses at three different universities.
The first one I quit halfway through the second term, bored out of my mind.
The second dropped in the fourth term after I started skipping classes, going out more, just drifting.
The third?
I barely made it through the first weeks.
While my sisters graduated, got their degrees, and began work, I bounced from idea to idea, chasing plans and telling everyone, Ill find my calling eventually. Everyone at home knew, but dad felt it most deeply.
He was my person.
Not just my father but my friend.
Hed take me to play snooker, to football matches, down the pub for pints at weekends, to barbecues with his mates.
My sisters had their timetables, marks, and responsibilities, but with me, it was different.
Hed say, Youre a lad, youll learn out in the world. I grew up free, with no real rules, no real pressure.
And as the years passed, it backfired.
I didnt know how to stick at anything not studying, not jobs, not routine.
Three months before he went, we had the hardest talk of my life.
We were sitting in the garden.
He was smoking, I was glued to my phone.
He asked me to put it away.
He said, Son, Im not disappointed in you, Im disappointed in myself.
I raised you the wrong way.
Spoiled you.
I shielded you from hardships.
I made you soft for the world. I couldnt speak.
My eyes burned, but I didnt cry.
I wanted to say something heartfelt, something grown-up but nothing came.
I only managed, Ill change, dad. He didnt reply.
Just looked at the ground.
Three months later, on a perfectly ordinary morning, he got up, went to brush his teeth, and collapsed on the bathroom floor.
It was sudden.
No goodbyes, no hospital, no last words.
I lost more than a father.
I lost the only man who kept believing I could sort myself out, even when he was tired of waiting.
After the funeral, I grappled with silent rage at myself.
I stopped going out.
Stopped drinking.
Stopped wasting time.
I enrolled at university again this time law.
I needed to prove something, maybe just to myself.
I rise at five in the morning, work part-time, and study into the evenings.
Sometimes I dont even feel like eating, but I push on.
Every exam I sit, I think of him.
Every subject I pass feels like me telling him, You see, I can do this.
Two years have passed.
Im moving forward.
No missed terms, no skipping lectures, no excuses.
My sisters look at me differently now, and cheer me on.
Mum says dad would be proud.
I dont know if proud is the word but at least he wouldnt have left thinking it was all a failure.
The hardest part isnt the studying.
Isnt the work.
Isnt the exhaustion.
The hardest part is not being able to ring him and say Ive passed a tough exam, or done well, or that Im living differently.
He was my partner in adventure the man who taught me to live without fear, but unknowingly left me without structure.
Now its my turn to build it for myself.
Sometimes, I get home late, backpack stuffed with textbooks, sink onto my bed and stare at a photo of us out for a walk, both grinning with pints in hand.
And I always think to myself, Old chap, I couldnt show you in time, but you werent completely wrong about me.
I want to be the best version of myself, because of him.
I just hope I can manage it.
