I miss my dad...

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If you’ve been reading Beautiful Things Grow Here,
you’ve probably come across pieces of this story before.

But this part—the part about my dad—
is the part I’ve carried closest.
The softest memory in the middle of something brutal.

---

The Bus Ride Home

After my mother kidnapped me for the second time, police stepped in.
They placed me in a foster home, just for one night.
Then, the next morning, they sent me on a Greyhound bus
seven hundred fifty-one kilometers back home.

I don’t remember the bus stops or much of that trip.

But I do remember the sound of the bus,
white noise and window light,
my breath fogging the glass as the world slid past
in streaks of grey and gold.

Then,
a sound.

Faint.

My name.

At first, I wasn’t sure it was real.
Maybe just wishful thinking.

But then I heard it again,
closer this time.
Steady. Familiar.

My eyes wide open.
My spine straightened.
I wiped sleep from my lashes,
and turned toward the aisle
already hoping it was him.

---

My Dad

And I saw him, my dad
standing in the aisle of the bus.

He’d driven through five cities to find me.
Jumped straight onto that bus,
calling for his daughter
like it was the only thing that mattered.

I ran
heart first,
tears falling,
straight into his arms.

And he held me like he’d never let go.
Like I was safe now.
Like I was home.

That moment lives in me
still, always.

It’s the best feeling I’ve ever had.

Better than Christmas mornings.
Better than birthdays.
Better than any win I’ve had as an adult.

---

The Years Between

He wasn’t always perfect.
He would disappear from time to time.
Sometimes with his silence.
Sometimes with alcohol.
Sometimes with strangers who wore his attention like perfume.

But that day on the bus,
that was the version I held onto.
The proof I kept in my pocket on the hard days.

He didn’t always know how to take care of me.
But I loved him anyway, dearly.

And when I got the call…
when they said he was in an induced coma,
I packed my bags,
flew 11,736 kilometers back home,
and gathered up all the words I never said.

Folded them like a letter. And brought them to his bedside.

---

Last Words

I whispered:
Dad, remember that day at the bus depot?
When you met me and made my world safe again?
I don’t think I ever said thank you,
but you saved me.
You’re my hero. You always have been.

I wasn’t sure if he could hear me. But I needed him to know.

He was my hero,
not because he fixed everything,
not because he had the right words,
but because he showed up.

Because when my mother made me feel worthless,
he made me feel like I was everything.

---

Holding On

Now, years later,
I reach for that version of him
not the man in pictures,
not the man most people remember, but my dad.

The one who made a broken childhood feel a little less scary just by being there.
Who made breakfast like it was an apology he didn’t know how to say.
Who didn’t always know what to do, but never stopped trying.

That’s the version I carry.
The one I need.

---

Memories That Stay

Some days, I can still feel that hug from the bus depot. The weight of it. The way he held me like I was the only thing holding him together too.

Other days, I forget the sound of his voice.
And it guts me.

I try to piece it together, his laugh, his sigh, the way he used to say my name when he was tired but still trying to be gentle.

---

What He Missed

There’s moments in the story of my life
parts he never got to see, never got to touch.
The milestones I crossed without him.
The life that grew beyond his reach.

And God, I wish I could tell him
I made it, Dad.
I got out.
I’m healing.

I wish he could see the woman I’ve become,
not perfect, not whole, but real.
Still soft.
Still trying.
Still holding on to that little girl
who ran off the bus
into his arms.

---

Grief and Love

Grief, for me, isn’t loud anymore.
It slips in when I’m making tea or folding laundry.
It’s a shadow that taps me on the shoulder and reminds me what’s missing.

He didn’t stay long,
but he stayed long enough to love me.

And that’s the kind of love you don’t forget.
That’s the kind of love that writes its name on your soul.

I know now that grief is love’s shadow,
following me gently,
reminding me of what once was light.

A moment for you…

If you’re carrying a grief like this,
I’d love to hold space for it with you.

Who do you miss?
What do you wish you could say?

Let’s say it together.
Let’s remember them out loud.

Grief deserves gentleness.
And so do you.

With love,
Debra 💛

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My Inspiration Corner

To support you wherever you are on your healing journey, here’s one book, one quote, and one song that have helped me hold space for loss and love, even when they feel tangled:

Book: The Light Between Worlds by Laura E. Weymouth
This novel weaves grief and hope into a story of returning from loss, showing how the heart carries both sorrow and the stubborn spark of new beginnings.

Quote:
"The reality is that you will grieve forever. You will not ‘get over’ the loss of a loved one; you will learn to live with it." — Elisabeth Kübler-Ross
A truth that holds space for grief as an ongoing companion.

Song: Blood Bank by Bon Iver
With its haunting melodies, this song captures the fragility of absence and the strange comfort of memories that refuse to fade.

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