My dad passed away from cancer a few years ago. At the shiva (a weeklong mourning period in Judaism for first-degree relatives), I broke down. I couldn’t stop crying.
Picturing a world without him hit me hard. At that moment, I thought of all the lost time and opportunities for a deeper connection that we had missed.
A year before his death, I took a trip with my dad and brother. We traveled to India to visit the city of his birth, Mumbai. My brother and I expected to learn more about his upbringing and genuinely connect.
Dad had other ideas.
He hadn’t returned to India since the day he left as a young man of 22. Dad didn’t come from a wealthy family; he had to work hard to save money for a one-way trip, packing a single suitcase to stay with an uncle in England. He never looked back.
Now, back in India for the first time — and with money — my dad wanted the tourist experience. We passed the old Catholic school he attended, which he casually mentioned as we sped past. We never got more than a brief mention of Dad’s life in India. The timing was never right, or he was never in the mood to enlighten us on his mysterious past.
I feel bad that we missed out on a lot of meaningful time together. All the hours we spent next to each other in the temple, praying together but never communicating. Or the long phone conversations with Mom, who would put Dad on the phone only for him to ask, “Are you all right? Do you need some money?” My dad, the accountant. He was happiest when talking about taxes and savings. It was his comfort zone and love language.
I’d get messages from Mom about how proud Dad was of me or when he might be worried for me. It was never a direct line. I wish my life were more like the movies, where father and son would sit on a deck and bond over a beer.
Dad never drank. He saw life as a series of serious challenges to overcome — and believed he needed to be sober to do so.
The final nail in our communication was my wanderlust. I couldn’t wait to leave home, and I fled as far as I could. I’d make sure my parents had no opportunity to drop by for a visit. Independence was important to me, especially since my brother got most of the attention.
Back home, I was mainly known as Joseph’s brother. I was the middle child determined to escape the shadow of my extroverted sibling, which led me to a six-year overseas adventure. I headed off to China with a love interest from New Zealand, never to return permanently. I briefly came home to ponder my next move before boredom and everyday routine gnawed at me like a gremlin after midnight.
Did I kid myself that we had such a deep connection that we didn’t need to talk about life? Did I simply accept that Dad was an introvert who rarely expressed himself? Why couldn’t I speak to him?
Years later, I eventually dragged a family of my own back to London from New Zealand. No one back home thought it would be wise to tell me that Dad had cancer. Eventually, the secret was too big to hide. It was a joy to introduce Dad to his newest grandson, but he was too weak to hold him. It all felt intrusive to me, giving me second thoughts about bringing my new family to my old home.
Dad beat cancer. The world was a happier place, and we made plans for our big trip back to the motherland, just the boys. A year later, the cancer returned — this time, it was even more brutal than the last. It consumed him at a much faster pace. Again, everyone back home reasoned that I could do very little but worry, living in New Zealand. The other side of the world was a barrier to communication. By the time I learned of his renewed illness, my dad was on his deathbed.
So many wasted opportunities.
Did I kid myself into thinking we had such a deep connection that we didn’t need to talk about life? Did I simply accept that Dad was an introvert who rarely expressed himself? Why couldn’t I speak to him? I feel like such an ass having wasted our time together. Why didn’t I say something? What was holding me back?
I look back now with regret and hope that I’ll never be that way with my own children. I tell them as often as I can that I love them and that I’m proud of all they do.
What would I ask my dad if he was still alive?
I’d ask him about his family in the motherland. How did his mum come to marry a man from India? Why would her parents allow her to leave Yemen as a child? What happened to them? Why are we estranged from his side of the family?
What was Dad’s life like growing up in India? What were his dreams and ambitions as a young man? He had dozens of photos of him as a student-athlete. He’d often tell us that he used to play cricket and football and run faster than his peers. It was the few topics he’d speak about in depth. We kids would mock him — my dad was the over-50 national squash champion, yet still, we didn’t believe him.
I would ask him for validation. Was he proud of me and the life I made? Was he ever worried that things wouldn’t work out for me? Was he ever concerned that I had lost my way?
Did he ever know about my drug use? That question has bugged me for years, but it was one I was never brave enough to ask. Did he suspect anything? Did he know when I was stoned? Could he smell it? What was he thinking when I returned home after being out all night with eyes wide and speech jumbled? Why did he never say anything?
But there’s one question that would take precedence over all of the others. If I had the chance, I would ask, Dad, do you love me?
This post originally appeared on Medium and is edited and republished with author's permission. Read more of Reuben Salsa's work on Medium.