A Quiet Visit
Processing Grief, Fatherhood, and a Dream That Still Speaks
I had a dream about my dad last night.
We were at some sort of bar or restaurant — I don’t even know who I was with, but that part didn’t seem to matter. Across the room, sitting alone at the bar, was my dad. Just… observing. Quiet. Present, but distant.
I saw him. I thought maybe he saw me, too. But he didn’t come over. He didn’t say hello.
I’ve been thinking about that moment all day.
This was the first time he’s visited me in a dream since his passing a couple of years ago. And the part that stuck with me most wasn’t that he was there — it was that he felt so far away. I kept asking myself: why didn’t he come over?
But the more I sat with it, the more it made sense.
That was just who he was. My dad was a quiet guy.
Even in the dream, it felt familiar.
When Someone Feels Distant — Even in Memory
I remember telling my friends in the dream that I saw him, but he didn’t say hi. I wondered if maybe he hadn’t actually seen me… or maybe he had, but didn’t want to interrupt.
Maybe next time, if he visits again, I’ll be the one to reach out.
And I’ll try not to hesitate.
The dream left me with this lesson: don’t shy away from people.
I can be the kind of person who makes a full 180 in the grocery store just to avoid small talk. (Not with everyone, but with most people.)
But if someone matters to you — if you want to connect — then do.
Reach out. Say hello. Don’t wait. Don’t assume they’ll be the one to cross the room.
Take it from me: you never know when it’s going to be too late.
The Complicated Truth About Our Relationship
When my dad passed, we were just starting to reconnect after four years of no contact.
The distance had started over something dumb — genuinely dumb. At the time, I didn’t get it. But now I do. I’ve since looked through his medical records and learned more about the mental health struggles he never talked about. Things that explained some of the emotional walls between us.
But that’s a whole other tangent.
(Not really the point today.)
Even before those four years, our relationship was strained.
We mostly saw each other on holidays. And even then, it always felt… hollow. The kind of visit where you feel like you’re going through the motions. As I got older, moved away, and started my own life, the visits became even less frequent.
And to be honest? I felt apathetic.
I was expected to say “I love you” to someone I barely knew.
That’s confusing for a kid. It still is, sometimes.
I Wish Things Had Been Different
I often find myself wondering about his mental state — not just near the end, but throughout his life.
If he’d gotten the support he needed — real mental health care — would his story have changed?
Was he just a prisoner of his time, where men weren’t taught how to ask for help?
He had a lot of demons in that brain of his.
And I wish I could’ve helped him face them.
I wish we could’ve gotten past the awkward dinners, the strained conversations.
I wish I could’ve seen him laughing with my son, even though he clearly didn’t know the first thing to do with a toddler. Even though he had three daughters, being emotionally present always felt foreign to him.
But still — what mattered most is that in the final chapter of his life, he was trying.
He was committed to rewriting his relationships.
To making up for lost time.
To building something new, even if it was quiet, even if it was late.
Next Time, I’ll Cross the Room
Even now, sitting with a dream like this, I’m grateful for that moment — even if it was from across the room.
Maybe next time,
I’ll walk across it.
Next Time, I’ll Cross the Room
Even now, sitting with a dream like this, I’m grateful for that moment — even if it was from across the room.
Maybe next time,
I’ll walk across it.
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