The father I always longed for was now dead, and that is what I mourned.
When my father died, I was 19 and he was 49. I didn’t cry as I cleaned out his apartment. I didn’t cry as I told his mother that he’d passed. I didn’t cry as I read the obituary in the paper. I didn’t cry at his funeral. In fact, I didn’t cry for almost a year.
After his actual death, it felt like I’d missed out on something that so many other people around me had — a loving father. It felt like that hope I’d always had growing up that my father would one day get clean, figure out his live, and be the father I always longed for was now dead, and that is what I mourned. The loss of my actual father didn’t hit me nearly as hard.
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