A father’s love, found later

Growing up, I often rolled my eyes whenever my mom struck up conversations with random people — whether it was in the grocery store aisle or while adding creamer to her tea at the local convenience store.

These chats could last anywhere from 10 minutes to an hour, and I’d tug at her sleeve and tap my foot impatiently, waiting for her to stop rambling. She’d get frustrated with me too, annoyed that my lack of patience always overshadowed the value she saw in those moments.

She used to tell me, over and over again, that no matter how brief a conversation might be, you never know where it could lead or what relationships might form as a result. At the time, I brushed it off as just another one of her sentimental sayings. That was until everything changed.

When I was 8, we moved out of our old house and into a small two-bedroom apartment. To downsize, we held a garage sale. I remember sitting on the parking lot pavement playing with my Barbie dolls as my mom set up a plastic table and a worn register she’d picked up at a thrift store.

That day, one of our neighbors from across the street approached us to welcome us and check out what we had for sale. He started talking with my mom. I can’t recall exactly what they discussed, but I remember the conversation lasting longer than the usual ones. And it felt different.

Not long after, his daughter was sitting on our back patio with my brother and me, laughing and roasting marshmallows. Meanwhile, our parents shared stories late into the night. What initially seemed like just another passing conversation turned into something lasting — it became family.

When my mother, brother and I left our old house, we weren’t just packing clothing and kitchen utensils. We were leaving behind years of verbal and physical abuse at the hands of my birth father.

I always believed my birth father’s substance abuse, narcissistic behavior and the scars he left on my family would define me. All we knew was how to live in fear — we had a meticulous escape plan for when he broke down bedroom doors and tried to smash my mother’s head against the marble counter with my grandmother’s cast-iron pan.

Chaos had always been the norm, and without it, we didn’t know how to exist. But that man we met at the garage sale became a constant in our lives. He wasn’t just someone my mother talked with in passing — he became her best friend and the man I now call my dad.

Before I knew it, he was doing all the things my birth father never did. He took me to my elementary school’s daddy-daughter dance, helped me with math problems at the kitchen table and offered a shoulder to cry on when I struggled to fit in at school.

He never raised his hand at us or made us feel inferior. He didn’t make us live in fear. He made us feel safe and loved.

I came to understand what love was, as well as what it wasn’t. Most of all, my mother finally had a companion who loved her in the way she had always deserved.

For 13 years, he filled our lives with hope — until he passed away unexpectedly on Jan. 29, 2024.

I’ve experienced loss and grief before, but no words I write will ever describe the excruciating agony I felt when my mother told me the news. I was hours away from home, studying in Washington, D.C., for the spring 2024 semester when she drove up to tell me in person.

What I thought was going to be quality time with her, a chance to show her around the city, quickly became the worst day of my life. We were in the car, driving to a restaurant, when she turned her head slightly, and tears began to fall from her eyes.

What followed was denial, tearful screaming and me reaching for my phone to call him — desperate to believe it wasn’t true.

In that moment, everything I knew about myself and my life changed. There was no peace. I couldn’t understand why he was taken from us when he was only 59 years old and had so much more love to give. I still can’t.

In the weeks that followed, grief took hold of my body and mind. I lived in a state of numbness, texting him as if he were still alive. I couldn’t get out of bed, my health declined, and I cried myself to sleep every night.

Now, more than a year later, my grief is still present. The funeral card my sister made sits in front of me as I try to synthesize my pain in a Google Doc: “Those we love don’t go away, they walk beside us every day. Unseen, unheard. But always near. Still loved. Still missed. And very dear.”

For months, I treated grief like a race — something I could finish. I told myself if I gave it a month, I’d be able to move on. But that couldn’t be further from the truth.

Grief lingers. It creeps up when you least expect it. It lives in you.

Every conversation I have, essay I write and happy moment I share, it’s always there. But that’s not a bad thing.

I hold my grief close to my heart, because it’s part of me. It’s part of the love I shared with my dad.

But I still find myself aching when I’m reminded that I can’t share my accomplishments with him or hear how proud he is of me — like he always was.

I still remember the day I read my acceptance letter to Lehigh. I ran to tell my mom and dad. He kissed my forehead and jumped with excitement, knowing that all those late nights spent working on school projects and math problems with me had finally paid off.

As a first-generation student, college was never a guarantee. But my dad never let financial stress or my moments of self-doubt stand in the way of a brighter future for myself.

When I walk across the stage at graduation and hear my name called, I’ll notice he’s not standing next to my mom. But I’ll also be smiling for him — grateful for everything he gave me and for the conversation my mom had with a random man at a garage sale.

To my dad — my greatest friend and biggest supporter — thank you. Thank you for loving me unconditionally, for believing in me and for helping me find light even in the darkest moments.