Today is my father’s birthday. He died nine and a half years ago, and I cannot believe how much my life has transformed in those years. He knew me as a mid-20-something who had finally established herself as a journalist and got her ass out of the house only a couple of years before. He knew me as someone who was struggling with my weight, and who had just finally started to shed a significant number of pounds through diet and exercise. He knew me as someone who had just started up a relationship after several years of single life. He knew me in my carefree, young days. I have not achieved that carefree mindset since the day he died. I may have technically been an adult already, but I really grew up that day.
He will never know me as someone who left journalism because I didn’t want to miss out on my life. He will never know that he inspired that. He will never know me as a fiancé, a wife, a dog owner, and most painfully, a mother. He will never meet Jane, and see how she has inherited the [maiden name] unibrow. I search for the [maiden name] in Jane; because she looks so much like Greg, it’s hard to see it. But I think her dramatic personality show signs of her Italian side.
It has been so long that days like these are nowhere near as painful as they used to be. But as my life grows and expands, it still cuts deep that he will never know me, as I am now.
Happy Birthday, Dad.