The Day My Father Died: A Year After the Loss

Death in the family is a strange thing. It feels surreal — like time pauses for the ones left behind, while, somehow, life goes on for everyone else.

When someone passes, especially after enduring pain and suffering, we often say it’s a relief for them. But the ones left behind? We carry the weight. Loss is still loss.

Why do people cry at funerals? It’s not just for the person who died. It’s for the parts of ourselves that leave with them — the memories, the conversations that will never happen, the healing that never came.

It happened so fast. One day he was still with us, and then — seven days later — he was gone. He was hospitalised, diagnosed, and taken all within a week. Six days of waiting, and on the seventh, he passed.

What pains me the most is that there were no signs, no symptoms, no warnings that could’ve helped us catch it earlier. No test. No clue. Just a sudden, irreversible truth.

If only there were ways to predict or catch these illnesses before they tighten their grip, maybe things would’ve turned out differently. Maybe we could’ve had more time. Maybe we could’ve said more.

And then, on top of the emotional toll, came the financial one — hospital bills, funeral expenses, all piling up during the hardest moment of our lives. It made me wonder: Could we have been better prepared? Could we have somehow eased the burden — emotionally, financially — for everyone involved?

A year ago today, on the 16th of July, my father died of cancer.

When my father passed, I was en route from Paris to my hometown in the Philippines. The grief was heavy, but it was the unexpectedness that broke me. I tried to put my thoughts into words, but it was too hard. The emotions sat like a stone in my chest, impossible to move.

My dad and I had a complicated relationship. Over the past decade, we drifted apart. We didn’t see eye-to-eye on many things. I tried, countless times, to fix what was broken between us — but sometimes, the gap felt too wide to bridge.

Still, there was always a part of me that hoped he’d let go of his pride and let us back in. I wanted to be there in his final moments. I wasn’t. But I did speak to him the night before he died. That call gave me some closure, a small but meaningful goodbye.

I’m the eldest of three. My sister, Hope, and our youngest brother, Clyde, looked to me to lead during that time. And maybe that’s why I carry more memories of him — of his presence during our childhood, of the bizarre life lessons he used to share when we were young. He was more present then, before everything changed.

I can’t pinpoint when we began to drift. Maybe it was when I left home after university. Or maybe even earlier. But I felt the distance grow year after year. Even so, I still carried the hope that one day, my dad would change — that we’d reconnect, that I could take care of him when he was old.

That day never came.

All I can hope now is that, in his final moments, he knew we had forgiven him — and that maybe, just maybe, he had forgiven us too.

It’s been a year. And the truth is, I don’t think we ever really move on from the loss of someone we love. There’s always an empty space where they once were. Over time, it might shrink, but it never disappears. It stays, gently reminding us of what we lost — and of what we still have.

Losing my dad reminded me of the importance of today. It taught me that while it’s human to grieve those we’ve lost, we must also remember to cherish those who are still with us.

Because tomorrow is never promised. But today — we still have today.