This is a letter for you, Dad

It’s been four years since I talked to you.

I wonder if you would still be here if I had paused my life and put all my energy into helping you get back on your feet. Confused about my own life’s purpose, I didn’t dare to imagine a life without you. I thought you would return to being the father I knew, just as you had after the first big surgery. You were in pain for several years, and all I had to do was invest a few months to be your personal cook, trainer, and most importantly, your companion.

When I walk alone, I think about the trips we never took. I ask myself: what if I had convinced you to refuse the surgery that left you in unimaginable pain for those last three months? What if we had both prayed and accepted your impending death? After dwelling on the what-ifs, I imagine taking you to a quiet forest filled with cypresses. We both lie down on a wooden deck and watch the sky filled with greens and blues. We hear the birds and the wind moving in their own directions. I hold your hand and ask about your past struggles. What made you cry? What made you laugh? What made you keep going? I hold my breath and wait until you tell me every detail of your memories. I say there are so many things that I didn’t know about you. I ask why you’re suddenly opening up your feelings. You say it’s because you’re finally at ease.

I messaged your sisters and brother yesterday. I told them it’s been four years already. They all live different lives, but the fact that they have gone through or are currently facing depression binds them together. Depression runs in our family blood. It only took a few messages to feel the pain they are going through.

Your oldest sister called me last night. She said she has been extremely busy lately. Living alone in a new city, she does swimming and yoga three times a week while going to church almost every day. She told me she went through major depression some years ago. She had to work out and pray to save herself from it. She never forgets to ask if I believe in any religion. I said no again this time, although I have been considering going to a Catholic church with my wife and daughter. Your sister would have been relieved to hear about my willingness to trust in God. I’m sure you would have loved seeing us go to church. You told me to trust in God whenever you had the chance, but I never knew which one you were talking about since you seemed to pray to multiple deities whenever you could. I felt you were more of a spiritual person than a religious person.

I know why I’m writing this letter to you. I knew I would have to be honest about my feelings if I were writing to you. I know you are still my biggest inspiration to continue writing. I even thought about writing your autobiography. I don’t think I will do that, but I want to talk to your brother and sisters to learn more about you.

When I see my daughter smiling, I think about how you laughed loudly without caring if others would stare at you funny. I imagine you holding her. You would have loved spotting my face, our face, in hers. You would have loved her name, Koyo, and commended me on how I came up with such a perfect name. You would have said you were one hundred percent sure Koyo had a bright future ahead of her. You would have said there was nothing to be worried about. You would have held my hand tight with your thick hand and told me I was doing a good job prioritizing the care of our daughter. You would have said, “Hallelujah.”

Your oldest sister told me you were in heaven. Are you? You told me a million times that you were never a rich man, but you helped thousands of people without any expectation of being paid back. I admired that about you. You paid twice as much whenever you thought the seller was genuinely interested in crafting the best experience for you. You easily trusted taxi drivers, baristas, pastors, monks, barbers, and all kinds of small business owners. I almost never pay more than what they ask for. You never hesitated to pay more when you felt energized by the seller’s passion. It’s so hard to find people like you nowadays.

At my age, you were already a professor. I’m nothing but a content creator. You possessed the ambition to change the world even a month before your death. You spoiled me with unconditional love for almost thirty years. Maybe that’s why I think the pursuit of money and status is not my game. I don’t feel jealous of people driving nicer cars or wearing fancier watches. I don’t feel compelled to compete with others because I have been loved my entire life.

You said you were not lying when you said I look like a movie star. You said my humor is unmatched. You asked how I came up with all the clever jokes. “My son has wits. He is a better version of me,” you said. I never truly appreciated your love for me. I never repaid you at the same level because you never asked me to return your investment. Once, I bought an Adidas tracksuit with my first paycheck and you wore it every day. You had better clothes, and the tracksuit probably didn’t match your style. Yet you were still happy, after all those years of pouring love into my soul.

I see my daughter and realize you would want me to love her as you loved me. That is what I intend to do for the rest of my life. To take those trips with her. To spend the time that we never had. To ask the questions that we never asked. You prepared me unknowingly to be a better father. I only realized this after you were gone. You are my inspiration.