Fear that

As the pregnancy wore on, I tried to prepare.

 I read books, watched videos, and listened to father friends proudly showing off photos of their children. I remained silent.

Photo by Szilvia Basso on Unsplash Because I felt like the more I studied, the more I didn't know what to do. And I kept thinking about him.

 About my dad.

Fathers are supposed to be beacons of light - pointing the way when everything is dark. Mine went out suddenly, too soon, too painfully. I was seven when my dad passed away before my eyes. 

I didn't understand what had happened then. No one explained it to me afterward.

 A silence fell in the house, from which no one could rescue me. I grew up learning masculinity from television, from watching my friends, from trial and error.

 And now I'm a father. And although I love my son more than life itself, I still feel like I'm lost. Because no one taught me how to be a father.

My Last Walk with Dad

It was a warm May afternoon. Dad suggested we go for ice cream and then to the park. He was wearing a plaid shirt and smelled of coffee and cigarettes, as usual. I walked beside him, holding his hand, and told him about the new, cartoon car I really wanted. He laughed, nodded, and said,

"Maybe we can arrange something this weekend, kid."

In the park, we sat on a bench, and Dad took out a pack of gum. He gave me one and took the other. Suddenly, his face changed. He started breathing heavily, and his arm - the one I was holding - went strangely limp.

 He looked at me, but it was as if he no longer saw me. He fell. He hit his head on the edge of the bench. People started screaming. Someone called 911.

I remember the sound of sirens, I remember the paramedics trying to resuscitate him. Someone pulled me away, but I struggled, screaming that he'd wake up soon, that he'd just fallen asleep. 

He didn't get up. He lay there motionless, his shirt soaked with sweat. My mother arrived later.

 She cried and hugged me, but I already felt something inside me die. Nothing has been the same since. I was seven years old and didn't know that was our last walk.

Photo by Mohamed Awwam on UnsplashI grew up in silence.

After the funeral, no one in our house talked about Dad. Mom seemed to shrink into herself. She cooked, went to work, cleaned, but as if she wasn't there. Sometimes she'd look out the window and wipe away tears, thinking I couldn't see.

 But I saw everything. And I kept it all to myself. Dad wasn't mentioned at the table or before bed. It was as if he'd ceased to exist.

At school, I was quiet. Other boys talked about weekends spent together with their fathers, trips, arguments, and games. I listened and nodded, pretending to understand. Inside, I felt only emptiness and jealousy.

 I learned to pretend. 

When the teacher told us to draw our family, I drew Mom and myself. Sometimes a dog, even though we never had one.

Words Missing

When our son was four, he first asked me about his grandfather. We were sitting together on the carpet, stacking blocks, when he looked at me and asked,

"Dad, where's your dad?"

I was speechless. I looked at him, then at Ola, who had stopped in the doorway. I wasn't ready. I didn't know what to say, having avoided answering that question myself for years.

"My dad… he passed away a long time ago," I finally said, gasping for breath.

"Was he nice?"

I smiled sadly.

"Very nice. I loved him very much."

That was all I could give him. I didn't have the courage to give him more. That evening, when my son was asleep, I sat on the balcony with tea and remembered that May day.

 I tried to hold it in my mind - my father's voice, his laughter, the way he squeezed my hand. 

And then I realized that although I didn't have many memories of him, I did have this one. And it was real.

 Authentic. 

Complete.

I returned to my son's room. I sat down next to his bed and stroked his head. He was sleeping peacefully, breathing evenly. In a whisper, I said,

"I want to be the kind of father to you that mine was to me. Even for a moment. Even for one scene."

And then, for the first time, I felt that maybe I didn't have to be perfect. That just being there was enough.

 Every day. 

That I was trying.

My father disappeared suddenly, leaving a void behind. I don't want to disappear. 

I want to be a beacon, even if sometimes my light flickers and I'm not sure where it leads.

 Because the most important thing I can do for my son is to be there.

 And try. 

Every day.