Not in the way people usually talk about father–child relationships.

But I admired him.

He was calm. Kind. Gentle in the way he handled things.

Low-key, I wanted to be like that — calm, steady, unbothered.

I used to tell people he was my spiritual pastor.

Whenever I needed advice, he was the one I ran to.

Then I found out some things about him.

Things that broke something inside me.

After that, I never looked at him the same way again.

I felt betrayed. Disappointed. Distant.

For almost a year, we didn’t speak.

We didn’t see each other.

Then one day, I heard he had fallen.

He had a stroke.

Three days later, he was gone.

I told myself I was fine.

I felt… indifferent. Or at least I thought I was.

Until the day of his burial.

I was told to follow the vehicle carrying his body.

As we moved, something strange kept running through my mind:

He’ll wake up.

He has to.

This is my dad.

I kept believing it — the whole journey.

It didn’t feel real.

It couldn’t be real.

It wasn’t until I watched them lower him into the ground…

six feet under…

that it finally hit me.

He didn’t wake up.

This was real.

When I got home and sat on my bed, everything collapsed.

All the memories came at once.

All the regrets.

All the “I wish I had…”

I wished I had talked to him more.

I wished I had seen him one last time.

I wished I hadn’t let distance win.

A year without speaking.

And the next time I saw him…

he was lifeless.

No amount of wishing could bring him back.