There’s a word I’ve never truly been able to say — “Dad.” Not because I don’t know what it means, not because I don’t long to say it, but because the man behind that word left this world before I even had a chance to make a single core memory with him.

People talk about dads as if they’re forever. They share stories about fishing trips, bedtime stories, teaching you to ride a bike, or just sitting quietly together in the same room. Those moments — those building blocks of love and identity — are the ones that shape us. But for me, those moments never came.

He died before I could get used to holding his hand. I have no memory of his voice calling my name. I was denied him watching me grow, cry over a lost love, celebrate, or stumble through life’s messy journey.

So what do I do with the space he left behind?

That empty space is heavy. It’s full of questions without answers, of holidays without a father figure, of milestones without his proud smile in the crowd. It’s a quiet ache on days others don’t understand.

But in that ache, I’ve learned something — that sometimes love doesn’t come from memories made, but from memories imagined and hope held onto. I carry his legacy in stories told by others, in family photos, and in the whispers of who I might have been with him here. Does it also come with the fact that I feel cheated…yes. They aren’t my memories, they are theirs.

Saying “Dad” isn’t just about the word. It’s about the connection, the safety, the knowing someone is there for you no matter what. I’m still learning how to build that with myself and others, because the man who could have been mine died before my story really began.

It has been over 50 years since he was murdered. Maybe one day, when asked are your parents alive. I can answer with no hesitation that he died and be numb to the pain on the persons face asking. Until then, I hold onto the quiet strength that comes from surviving what was lost and hope to continue to become who I was meant to be anyway.

Because love — even the kind taken too short — never really dies.