The Words I Never Said to My Dad

I remember the last time I saw him.

He was sitting on the porch, wearing his old blue flannel and sipping black coffee from the mug I painted for him in the third grade. It had the words “Best Dad Ever” scrawled in shaky, childish letters, half-faded from time and too many trips through the dishwasher. He looked peaceful, watching the sunrise like it was something sacred. I didn’t know then it would be the final sunrise we’d share.

“Morning,” I had said, walking past him.

He nodded and grunted something in return—his usual morning greeting. We had become good at saying very little, my dad and I. Our relationship was built on silence, gestures, and the kind of love that isn’t spoken but lived. He fixed my car without being asked. He stayed up late when I was out, pretending to be asleep when I got home. He never said “I love you,” but he showed it in every way that mattered.

Still, I wish I had said the words out loud.

I wish I had told him that I noticed the way his hands trembled slightly when he held his mug. That I saw the way his shoulders curved forward a little more each year, as if life had become something he carried on his back. That I admired him—not for being perfect, but for never giving up when life threw him its worst.

Growing up, my dad was the kind of man who didn’t waste time on feelings. He fixed things, worked hard, paid bills, and came home with grease under his nails and tired eyes. He didn’t tell stories about his past or ask too many questions about mine. We existed in parallel tracks—close, but never quite touching.

When I was a teenager, I mistook his silence for indifference. I resented him for not being the kind of dad who cheered loudly at games or talked about emotions. I wanted warmth, long talks, bear hugs like the ones my friends’ dads gave. I didn’t understand that his love language was presence, not poetry.

Now, I understand.

It wasn’t until after his heart attack that I realized how much I had left unsaid. The hospital was too white, too cold, and the machines too loud for comfort. He looked smaller in that bed, his face pale, his hands tucked under the blanket like he was already fading.

I sat by him, my words caught somewhere between my throat and my pride. I opened my mouth a hundred times that day but only managed to say, “You’re going to be fine,” and “The dog misses you.”

He chuckled weakly. “That mutt only loves me for the treats.”

He was gone two days later.

I didn’t get to say goodbye. Not properly. Not the way I wanted to.

There were no last confessions, no heartfelt conversations, no cinematic farewell. Just a call at 4:13 a.m., and the kind of silence that splits your chest in half.

At the funeral, people said he was a “good man,” “honest,” “quiet,” “solid.” Words that don’t seem grand enough to describe the gravity of losing a father.

After the service, I found myself back at his house. The porch was still there, still facing the same horizon. I sat in his old chair and stared out at the trees, the way he used to. The morning air smelled like coffee and dew. That’s when it hit me—how many conversations we never had, how many “thank yous” and “I love yous” I left unspoken, as if there would always be more time.

I walked inside. The house still held his scent—wood shavings, motor oil, and faint aftershave. On the kitchen table was a small, worn notebook. His handwriting—strong, blocky letters—filled the pages. I opened it, unsure of what I was looking for.

What I found were notes: reminders to pick up dog food, a grocery list, a few phone numbers. But on the last page, scrawled in pen, was this:

“Claire called. Sounds tired. Hope she knows I’m proud of her. I should tell her.”

I sat with that for a long time.

He never did tell me. But he wanted to.

And maybe that’s enough.

Or maybe it’s not. Maybe love is never truly finished. Maybe it’s always a little messy, a little silent, a little late. But that doesn’t make it less real.

Since he passed, I’ve started talking to him more. Not in the way people do at graves, but in small, quiet moments. When I fix something around the house, I hear his voice in my head: “Don’t strip the screw.” When I’m driving alone at night, I sometimes whisper, “Miss you, Dad,” like it’s a prayer I’m not sure how to end.

And once in a while, I sit on that same porch, drink a cup of black coffee, and watch the sunrise.

In those moments, I think he hears me.

If I could say one thing now, I’d say this:

“Dad, I noticed more than you thought. I loved you more than I ever said. And I’m sorry it took losing you to find the courage to say it.”