My Father died yesterday afternoon, after a violent attempt at resuscitation. After reading the code report, I understood that there was nothing anyone could have done to save him. When my mother asked me to write his obituary, I paused. I’ve written plenty about my father, and just last week, I pulled him into my room because I needed him to listen to me.

He shuffled over slowly; in retrospect, his heart was already giving out. He came and sat next to me, anxiously thumbing his water cup. I needed him to know who his daughter was, who I really am. I wanted him to understand where I was in my life and how successful my attempts had been at rebuilding what had been ravaged in a fire of my own making.

He smiled when I told him about my book on the shelf of a major bookstore in multiple countries, and laughed out loud when I told him I had finished my second book. He was proud, and when I told him I had fallen in love and bought a homestead with a man, he seemed relieved.

My father wasn’t perfect. He knew from my own mouth how he failed his kids. But in those moments, when I pulled him towards me to let him know I was still there, awaiting any attempt from him, I could see a sliver of his fatherly love. Deep down, he knew I was going to be okay. I’m glad I could give him at least that much peace before he left for good.