My dad is no longer with us. I lost him back in 2013. Ours was a love, hate relationship. Maybe hate is too strong a word. Maybe dislike might work better. Yet I miss hearing his voice and calling him dad when I went home. I’d feel like a kid again and I think he still enjoyed playing the father even though I was a grown man.

Dad worked all the time in order to sustain our family, and it bothered me because he never got to play football with me, attend my school plays, give me driving lessons, or attend sports day at school. It was not till I grew to be an adult that I understood, that it was not possible for him to be there just because I wanted him to be. Him working was what was keeping me in a very good school.

My father was a proud and driven man, energetic yet stubborn, unpredictable but loyal, generous and gentle. A man of simple but practical needs. I once asked him if he had any dreams he didn’t accomplish. He said no. I just wanted to take care of his family. Which he did for fifty-plus years until that bond was severed. He died on the 23rd day of the month, the same as my mother, though different years. Somehow I don’t think the timing was coincidental.

My last days spent with him were bitter-sweet. Maybe his illness had created this Jekyll and Hyde personality that could switch moods at any moment. I try now to focus on the joys. He could be unpredictably funny, and so were his questions that were blunt with no softening beforehand. I think he loved me. Maybe he didn’t. Maybe he liked me instead and disliked me when it suited him. There were moments when I knew he was proud of me and that had to suffice for not hearing the words ‘I love you.’