I wasn't expecting much from the funeral. Maybe a twinge of sadness, a polite nod to the man who had always been there but never really there.
My dad, Mike*, wasn't the type to leave a big hole when he left. He wasn't the warm, larger-than-life figure you'd see in sitcoms. He was the guy who worked long hours, read the paper in silence, watched the 6 o'clock news without commentary, and went to bed early.
But as I stood at the back of the chapel, I felt something I couldn't quite put into words. Not grief exactly, or at least not the kind I'd expected. It was heavier, more tangled.
Dad wasn't a bad dad. He didn't drink or yell or forget birthdays. There was always a card, sometimes cash tucked inside. He gave me what I needed - new school shoes, a lift to Mum's house after the school holidays ended, enough money to get through university. But he wasn't present. He never came to a school assembly or a netball match. He never asked about my life, and I don't remember him sharing much of his.
Watch: Having a 'lost father' is a type of unhealthy father-daughter relationship. Post continues after video.
As a kid, I filled in the gaps myself, imagining him as this quiet, proud man sitting at the back of the audience, smiling as I collected my participation ribbons. I let myself believe he cared but just didn't know how to show it.
After Mum left him when I was 12, our relationship became even more distant. The divorce wasn't messy; Mum just needed more than Dad could give. It was just… sad. But even before that, he'd always been the same - a man of few words and even fewer actions.
I spent the holidays at his place, awkwardly navigating his world. He'd cook me sausages and mashed potatoes, never asking if I liked them, and I'd eat without complaint because I didn't want to rock the boat. I'd sit in silence while he watched the news, desperate for a moment of connection, but unsure how to start the conversation.
At some point, I stopped trying. I figured he was who he was, and no amount of effort from me would change that. Mum, in contrast, was warm, present, and endlessly loving. I leaned into that and let Dad drift further into the background.
The truth is, I had closer relationships with some of my friends' dads than I ever did with my own. It was their dads who showed up for weekend netball tournaments, and knew all the names of their kids' friends. They were the ones who asked about my grades or teased me when they found out I had a crush on someone. I used to watch them, wondering why it seemed so easy for them to connect with their kids - and with me - but so impossible for my own dad. I told myself it didn't bother me, that I didn't need that kind of connection. But I was kidding myself.
At the funeral, though, everything I thought I knew about him cracked open. The chapel was packed with people - friends, neighbours, old workmates. I couldn't understand it. The man I knew was quiet and solitary. Who were these people, and what were they doing here?
Then the stories started.
"He kept half the town on the road," one man said, his voice thick with emotion. Through him, I learnt that my dad volunteered his time for an organisation that helped the underprivileged maintain their vehicles so that they were able to find work and keep jobs.
"He never charged a cent for it, either. If someone was struggling to make ends meet, Mike would fix their car on his weekends, no questions asked."
I blinked. Dad fixed cars for free? He'd been a mechanic my whole life, but I'd never known he volunteered his time like that.
Another woman chimed in. "Did you know he was obsessed with Words With Friends? He used to stay up late playing with people all over the world. He was bloody good at it, too - always bragging about his triple-word scores."
The room chuckled. I forced a polite smile, but inside, I felt hollow. Dad? Playing Words With Friends? Staying up late? Bragging?
Another story came next. This one from my "Uncle Ray*" – not really an uncle, he was Dad's childhood friend who still lived in the small country town that they grew up in. "Every week, without fail, he wrote me a letter," he said. "Even after an email came in, he kept at it. Said it was important to him, putting pen to paper."
There was more: he grew heirloom tomatoes in his backyard, always gave them away. He'd slip a couple into the mailbox for the widow down the road, who apparently made "a cracking chutney" with them.
Tomatoes. Letters. Triple-word scores. Who was this man?
It wasn't just one or two people sharing these stories, either. It was everyone. The neighbour whose car Dad had fixed three times. The old receptionist at Dad's workshop who said he always remembered her kids' names. The woman in a wheelchair whose garden Dad had helped prune last spring. A parade of people, each with their own piece of the puzzle.
I listened, smiling when appropriate, nodding when expected, but my chest felt like it was caving in. I'd spent my whole life thinking Dad didn't have much to give. Turns out, he gave plenty - just not to me.
I couldn't help but feel angry. Why hadn't I known these things? Why hadn't he shared any of this with me? But the anger didn't last long. It dissolved into something messier: regret. I hadn't asked, either. I'd spent years resenting his distance without ever trying to close it.
I stood there, surrounded by people who clearly adored my dad, and I felt like an outsider at my own father's funeral. They knew him in ways I never did. And now, I never would.
What if I'd tried harder? What if I'd asked him about his letters or his tomatoes? What if I'd sat down with him and forced him to play Words With Friends with me? Could we have shared some of those moments? Could he have been the dad I'd always wanted, if only I'd pushed a little more?
I'll never know. And that's the ache I'm left with - the grief not just of losing him, but of losing the chance to know him.
It's been years now, and I still feel it. This complicated grief, tangled up in "what ifs." I didn't just lose my dad that day. I lost the version of him I never got to meet. The man who stayed up late, who wrote letters, who made chutney-worthy tomatoes.
And that's the part that hurts the most.
*Names have been changed for privacy.
The author of this story is known to Mamamia but remained anonymous due to privacy purposes.
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