My dad died on the 8th May 2026

We were very close. For most of my life, I was basically his shadow. I didn’t want to write anything on here about it, but as it’s Father’s Day I thought I’d share what I said at his funeral.

I have too many memories and too little time to share them. I can’t cleanly summarise the thirty-four years I had with my dad, and all the times, both good and bad, have melted into something made incoherent by grief. Instead, I can only recount a single moment, at once insignificant and extraordinary, that encapsulates the soft kindness he possessed.

On the 25th April 2013, my grandmother died. She’d been in hospital with pneumonia and had been in good spirits earlier in the day. My dad had been with her that morning, talking and chatting, and then he met up with me in the afternoon so we could check in on her together. Just routine things. On the way, we passed Blackbird Bakery and I asked him to buy me a lemon and poppyseed cake. He shut me down immediately and we continued onto King’s. I’ll never forget that moment, when the nurse strategically redirected us to a family room and broke the news that somehow, during our short absence, Pearl Jackson had passed away. In my shock I cried openly, and then together, we stood vigil beside the body. After accepting her departure, we returned to where I’d left the car, where a parking fine had been plastered on the windscreen.

“A final gift from your grandma,” said dad. And then he turned to me. “Would you like that cake now?”

It was such a sweet thing, that even in his own grief, he’d remembered I’d wanted a slice of cake, and he wanted to make me happy. We all have various memories of his generosity and kindness, and even my grandma would have attested to this, as my dad had been her main carer, and sometimes I’d help, giving her washes and running her errands, and I think looking after her gave us something to do together. Once, she told me that sometimes looking at my dad made her cry, because she reminded him of her departed husband, because he was so self-sacrificial, and in the weeks following his death, I’ve been touched by various stories of people who’ve testified of his kindness. I’m very proud of that.

After my mum died, I had a dream. It was a little eerie. Rox and I were getting ready for her funeral, and we were in her room, and so was she—sleeping in bed. Just before we were about to leave the house, my mum was awake, and upright, holding up her arms triumphantly, and we both told her “well done”.

After my dad died, I also had a dream. I think it was triggered by my sadness of knowing he’d died alone and that I hadn’t been there to stand by his side as he’d been able to do for grandma. In the dream, my dad was dead, and I was looking after his body, dressing him in casket clothes, but I was too scared to look at his face, so I left a cloth there to cover it. Somehow, the veil above him lifted, and I forced myself to look at him properly, and I was relieved to see it wasn’t that bad. He still looked like himself.

My dad’s constant care for us means that he’s left us with many things. He’s ensured we’re secure and can look after ourselves even now that he’s gone and it hurts. He did all of this so we can know that it’s not that bad, that we can still live good lives, comfortable lives, and enrich others as he has enriched us. So I would like to live a life that he would be proud of, now that he’s no longer there to watch over it.