Tomorrow is the 17th anniversary of my dad’s passing. His name was Peter and he died of a heart attack when he was 44. I was 13.
Although my parents were not together, and had not been for several years, when he died, I still miss him. I miss what we might have had, the relationship we could have built as I grew older.
I was lucky enough to have the most wonderful grandfather I could have asked for, but I still think of my dad often and hope he is up there somewhere, drinking a pint, listening to Don Mclean and telling bad jokes with his buddies.
Most of all, I hope he’s proud.