Five thoughts on the 20th anniversary of your death.

In elementary school when people would ask me why I didn’t have a dad I would tell them you died of lung cancer from smoking too many cigarettes.

When my aunt broke down in front of me before my birthday and said “he was my brother” it was the first time anyone had every contextualized your role in their life for me. I had only heard you referred to as “your dad” before that. I don’t think I’ve ever heard grandma say “my son”. I wonder why that is.

I’m the sacred cow in this family and it drives me insane. I want them get mad at me, I want them to call me out for being such a shitty person sometimes but they never do and they never will because I’m your daughter. They’re just so glad that I’m just like you but without the heroin. 

People always tell me how proud of me you would have been. And the thing is, it’s your validation I need most in life and I will never, ever get it.

It’s weird, missing someone you don’t remember.