HE WAS THE OLDEST DAD IN THE ROOM—AND FOR YEARS, I COULDN’T LOOK AT HIM

 

Growing up, I lied about my dad’s age, telling people he was in his fifties when he was actually 68 when I was born. He felt more like a grandfather than a dad.

At school events, he wore worn shoes and big plaid shirts. Kids stared and once asked if he was my great-grandfather. It hurt, but I laughed it off.

By high school, we argued a lot. I even told him it was selfish to have me so old. He never yelled back—just sat quietly, hurt.

At graduation, while other families celebrated loudly, he stood off to the side holding a handmade sign: “SO PROUD OF YOU, MY GIRL.” He looked frail. I almost ignored him.

Later, he gave me a card saying he had no regrets, only gratitude. I didn’t open it until I was packing for college.

Freshman year, I missed his calls and replied briefly. Meanwhile, my roommate’s dad sent care packages. I didn’t tell anyone my dad’s hands shook trying to use his phone.

Then came the call: he’d collapsed and was in the hospital.

I rushed home and held his fragile hand. He smiled and whispered, “You came.”

We didn’t talk about the past. Later, I found his journal after he passed—his way of holding on.