I’m sorry I have been away so long. My second trail over the last few months has been a particularly rough climb. The obstacles effected the time I could devote to writing.

Not all of the obstacles were unexpected, nor unwelcomed. In March 2026, I celebrated a milestone birthday. When others tried to tease me for being ‘old’, I rejoiced with the fact that I have survived and thrived for 50 years. The month of June brought the joy of participating in the Hamilton Falcon Watch for the second year in a row. I advocated with Health Care professionals to explain my chronic pain. I made a critical switch to my Primary Health Care provider, which has benefited me greatly. I celebrated the successes of my children and pushed for improved school involvement with my youngest son.

The roughest obstacle was the dichotomy of emotions when my father’s life ended at the end of January 2026. For two decades, my father battled against a rare muscle disease with a name that some people could not pronounce. Every single day, my father fought against a level of pain that I hope I will never know. Despite my father’s physical limitations, he didn’t stop living. He went fishing with his buddies, he went on road/camping trips with my mom and engaged in every project that intrigued his constant curiosity.

The people, who have been part of my inner circle, know of the strained relationship between my dad and I. My father and I could not be in the same room for more than a couple of hours before he became irritated with me, and I became hurt over the words he chose to speak to me. During my pre-teen years, I learned the term ‘Daddy’s little girl’ and I envied my friends that had that kind of relationship with their fathers. The photo of my dad and my two-year-old self became the emblem of the kind of dad I prayed for daily. By the time I was engaged to my first husband, my anger and resentment towards my father’s harsh-love approach to parenting, caused me to look forward to removing my father’s surname from my identity. However, year after year, I kept hoping that either I would be able to find a way to talk to him that wouldn’t trigger harshness, or he would soften his approach with me. At the time of my father’s diagnosis, I contemplated if my unforgiveness would prevent me from feeling the loss of a parent. Through many therapy sessions, I was able to achieve a place of forgiveness, but I also had to accept a fact: In order to maintain forgiveness, I needed to limit the time I spent in my dad’s presence.

In September 2025, I had been working on my genealogy for several months. I cautiously arranged a solo visit to my parents’ home with the clear intention that I was only there to acquire our family’s historical memorabilia. As I was filtering and cataloging all of the photos and items with Mom, Dad handed me a medium sized, plastic container. This contained one of Dad’s most prized collections: His father’s World War II memorabilia. Dad went through each of the items and I delighted in sharing this moment with him. One of the pieces he shared with me, I featured in the story I Will Never Forget.

Dad said, “Take it home with you and when you’re done with it, make sure it goes to your brother.” I was shocked. For decades, Dad made a point of telling me how lazy and irresponsible I was, now he was entrusting me with one of his most prized possessions. I felt honoured.

The next day, my parents were preparing for a potluck dinner they were hosting that evening. One of Dad’s favourite hobbies was cooking and one of the legendary things he made was his Sour Dough dinner rolls. Dad was looking particularly weary, and Mom suggested that Dad teach me how to make the dinner rolls. I was nervous because any time Dad tried to teach me anything, I could not learn fast enough. During my younger years, if I didn’t measure up to Dad’s expectations, Dad spewed out false accusations, which was followed by a yelling match and ended with my tears sharing my dashed hopes of the relationship I desperately wanted with my dad. Equipped with a new understanding on how my mind perceives communication, I decided to give a one-on-one moment another chance. Dad gently took me through each small step more thoroughly than I could ever remember him doing. As I expected, I made a small mistake. My anxiety rose, expecting the typical response from Dad, but it didn’t come. Dad let out a sigh and just explained why this mistake wasn’t that big of a deal, followed by a non-accusatory explanation on how it should have been done, and concluded with an explanation on how I could fix it. I’m not sure if Dad ever saw my amazement over his new approach with me. Upon removing the perfectly golden-brown rolls from the oven, I looked at Dad and said, “I never realized what a good teacher you are! Thank you!” I went in for a hug, and he unexpectedly reciprocated the same hug I gave him. Before I left the next day, I thanked him, and I said to him, “What happened yesterday, Dad. You were the kind of dad I have always prayed for.” I hugged on him again. Yet, there was a knowing in my soul that this would be the last time I would be able to talk with him.

The last week of January 2026, I arrived at the hospital to my unconscious father hooked up to all kinds of tubes and an IV that delivered the medicine to keep him comfortable in his last hours. I was too late to talk to Dad before he lost consciousness because of pour winter road conditions.

When it was just Mom and I in the room, she shared with me, “Dad wants you to keep your grandfather’s war stuff! So, if he wakes up, please tell him that you know that you are to keep them.”

“What?! Really?!” I exclaimed.

Mom continued, “Your story [I Will Never Forget] moved him so much that he knew that you would be the right person to safeguard them for future generations.”

Mom left the room.

Tears streamed down my face, and I gasped in time with Dad’s end-of-life inhales. In that moment I was little Stacy placing my small hand into my daddy’s hand and said “Dad? If you can hear me, I promise to safeguard grandpa’s stuff. I even found out how to join the Legion and they will help me mount his stuff in a shadow box frame as a memorial to him. Thank you for trusting me! I wish I could have talked to you before now. I’m sorry I was late, again!”

Dad’s eyes opened and his paled brown irises allowed him to focus on me even though he couldn’t speak. “Dad? Hey it’s me! It’s Stacy. I made it! I’m glad I made it before you left! Listen, I don’t know if I told you this yet, but all that stuff between us, it’s long forgiven and forgotten! If you need to go now, you can go knowing everything is right between us! I love you!”

With the little strength Dad had left, he gently squeezed my fingers and closed his eyes.

“Stacy?” Mom said, “Dinner is here.”

I didn’t say anything and I looked back at Dad.

“Go and eat, I’m guessing you didn’t eat lunch, and it’s nearing seven[pm]” Mom declared. My sister and my two daughters appeared behind Mom and they reassured me that they would come get me the moment anything changed.

I agreed with merely a nod and headed for the ICU waiting room. I had barely sat down and taken my first bite of my egg salad sandwich, when my youngest daughter appeared and told me that I should come in immediately. Dad’s breath was noticeably shallower and less frequent. Surrounded by Robert’s family, a final exhale gently whooshed out of his mouth.

In the weeks between my dad’s last day and Dad’s memorial party, I experienced every stage of grief. I was at peace and accepted that Dad was no longer suffering. I was sad because I felt like a piece of me was missing. I was angry that the weather didn’t co-operate and allow me one last conscious conversation with my dad. Then bitterness set in. I realized how much my lack of understanding about my ADHD had on my relationship with my father. I was also bitter that my dad waited until the last few months of his life to recognize how he could have interacted with me more appropriately. As I listened to all the positive memories being shared, my bitterness left me wondering where was that good man all of my life? As I journaled through my struggles, guilt set in as I remembered my dad’s voice saying, “Beggars can’t be choosers!” In spite of my bitterness, I felt led to write a short story about a fond family memory that was led by my father. As I wrote the ending, I realized that I did have access to the good man that my dad was. My dad faithfully stood by his family and taught his children the importance of perseverance, loyalty, and resourcefulness. Guilt set in.

A month after the memorial, I randomly woke up in the middle of the night. I sat up and looked to the opposite end of my dark bedroom. A soundless image that wasn’t quite there, illuminated my mind. Dad looked to be in his mid to late twenties clothed in early 1970s clothes and hairstyle. He was standing in the middle with his stern looking parents on his left, and his four stern-looking grandparents on his right. Standing in front of Dad’s parents was my aunt and she was holding hands with a toddler that looked like a mini version of my aunt (my aunt’s identical twin sister died days after she was born in the late 1940s). I smiled, as Dad gave me a pleading grin. I began to cry and whispered, “I’m sorry!” Dad made a soundless chuckle as if to say, that he didn’t blame me for anything.

My sobs woke my husband, “Are you ok?” Gregg turned towards me and gently rubbed my back to comfort me.

“Yeah, I just had a flash of my father?” I shared.

“I’m sorry hunny, those moment seem to happen when you least expect them to.” Gregg reassured.

“I’m kinda glad it did though. I don’t know how I know, but there’s no doubt that Dad is at peace!”