I was thirty when Dad passed away.
Now, at thirty-two, our final conversation still aches, as though it happened only yesterday.
Id always been the troublesome childstarting things and never finishing them.
I tried three different courses at three different universities.
The first I abandoned in the second term because I got bored.
The second, I dropped in the fourth term, after I started skipping lectures, going out too often, letting myself drift.
The third, I quit before the end of the first term.
Meanwhile, my two sisters graduated, landed jobs, and built steady lives, while I hopped from idea to idea, plan to plan, always saying, Ill find my thing. Everyone at home saw it, but it was Dad who felt it most.
He was my mannot just my father, but my mate.
He took me to play snooker, to football matches, for pints on weekends, barbecues with his pals.
While my sisters had schedules, grades, and responsibilities, things were different with me.
Hed say, Youre a bloke, youll learn your lessons on the streets. I grew up with freedom, few rules, and little real pressure.
As the years went by, it backfiredI found myself unable to stick with anything: not studying, not working, not a routine.
Three months before he died, we had the toughest talk of my life.
We were sitting in the gardenhe smoking, me scrolling on 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.
I spoiled you.
I spared you difficulties.
I made you too soft for life. I stayed silent.
My eyes burned, but I didnt cry.
I wanted to say something strong, something grown-up, but nothing came.
All I managed was that Id change.
He didnt reply.
Just stared at the ground.
Three months later, on an ordinary morning, he got up, went to the bathroom to brush his teeth, and collapsed.
It was sudden.
There was no goodbye, no hospital, no last words.
I lost not only my Dad but the only person who still believed I could sort myself out, even when he grew tired of waiting.
After his funeral, I found myself angry and frustrated with myself.
I quit going out, quit drinking, quit wasting my time.
I enrolled again at universitythis time, law, because I needed to prove something.
I get up at five in the morning, work part-time, study in the evenings.
Some days, I barely eat, but I push through.
Every exam I take, every subject I pass feels like Im saying to him, See?
I can do it.
Its been two years.
Im making progress.
I dont miss semesters, I dont skip lectures, I dont look for excuses.
My sisters look at me differently and support me.
Mum says Dad would be proud.
I dont know if proud is the wordat least he wouldnt have left thinking everything was a failure.
The hardest part isnt the studying or the work, or even the exhaustion.
Whats hardest is not being able to ring him and tell him Ive passed a tough exam, that Im doing well, that Im finally turning things around.
He was my partner in adventurethe one who taught me to live without fear, but also, unwittingly, left me without structure.
Now, its my turn to build that for myself.
Sometimes, when I come home late with a backpack full of textbooks, I sit on my bed and look at a photo of the two of usout for a walk, a pint in hand, smiling.
And I always say to myself, Old man, I couldnt prove it to you in time, but you werent completely wrong about me.
I want to be the best version of myself for him.
I hope I manage it.
