Father’s Day Without Him: 25 Years Later and Still Missing My Dad

Father’s Day always finds me a little quieter, a little more reflective. Even after 25 years, there’s still a tenderness that rises when the calendar turns to June and the world starts talking about dads. You’d think time would blunt the edges, and in many ways, it has. But there are some losses that settle into the core of who you are, and losing my father is one of them.

I was young when he died—not a child, only 23. Just old enough to start appreciating him as a man, not just as my dad. Old enough to realize he didn’t have all the answers, but he sure tried his best. I didn’t know then how precious those last few conversations would be. I didn’t know how many times I’d replay his laugh in my head or try to remember the way his hands looked when he held a coffee mug.

I didn’t know that 25 years later, I’d still be turning around wanting to tell him things. Big things, like life decisions. Little things, like who won the game or what Ma said last night that had me in stitches. I didn’t know how often I’d search a crowd, still half expecting to see a face that looks just like his, even though I know better.

Grief is strange that way. It doesn’t leave. It just becomes a quiet companion. At first, it was heavy and loud. Then it grew softer. But it never truly left. It just moved in, tucked itself into the quieter corners of my life, showing up in unexpected moments—at the garage when I have to get my car fixed, in the smell of sawdust, when I hear a Roy Orbison song, or when someone uses a phrase he used to say like “measure twice, cut once.”

The truth is, I didn’t just lose my father. I lost the future with him. I lost him making me get up early on Saturday mornings to keep him company after Ma went to work because he hated sitting there by himself. I lost Sunday afternoons in the backyard. I lost hearing his opinions, even the ones I didn’t agree with. I lost the way he could fix just about anything. I lost a part of myself that only he could reflect back to me.

But I also gained something. Something I didn’t understand until I was older. I gained a deep appreciation for the way he loved us. He wasn’t perfect—no one is—but he was steady. He was present. He was the kind of man who showed up, who worked hard, who taught me that a handshake meant something and that your name should carry weight because of your actions, not your words.

I carry him with me in more ways than I realize. In my stubbornness. In my work ethic. In the way I tend to people and places. In the way I still check the oil in my car before a long trip, because he taught me to. In the way I listen to someone with my whole attention, the way he always did. And in the quiet confidence I have in doing things myself—because he believed I could.

On Father’s Day, I let myself miss him a little more openly. I’ll take a drive and play the music he liked. I’ll sit on the porch and drink a cup of coffee, like he used to, and pretend he’s just inside the house. I’ll talk about him. I’ll say his name. And if I tear up, that’s okay. It’s a small price to pay for having had a father so worth missing.

Grief never ends, but neither does love. I think about that a lot, especially on days like this. We grieve deeply because we have loved deeply. My father may be gone from this world, but he’s etched into the fabric of who I am. He helped shape me into the woman I’ve become. And for that, I will always be grateful.

So if this Father’s Day finds you missing your dad too—whether it’s been one year or twenty-five—know that you’re not alone. There’s a whole quiet community of us, carrying the legacy of good men who made us feel safe, seen, and loved. We may not get to call them, hug them, or laugh with them anymore, but we still carry them.

Every day. Especially on Father’s Day.