I got the call at 7:30 in the morning. It flipped my world upside down.

I was on my first real vacation alone. It had been something I was looking forward to for months—my first trip to Formula Drift. I’d followed these drivers for years, admired their skill, the cars, the culture. Seeing them in person felt like meeting celebrities. I took photos, talked with them, walked through the pits. It was everything I’d dreamed of and more. The roar of the engines, the smell of burning tires, the energy—it was electric. I was there with my girlfriend, and the trip felt perfect. We drove peacefully, laughed, explored, made memories. For a brief moment, I felt completely alive.

That morning, just before we were supposed to leave, my sister called. My dad had collapsed in a 7-Eleven on his way to the gym. They thought it was most likely a heart attack. He was being rushed to the hospital.

We packed up the car immediately. I remember slowing down though, taking pictures of the hotel room before we left—my first time ever booking one myself. I genuinely thought everything was going to be fine. I told myself, He’s strong. He’s going to be okay. I drove back like it was just another morning. I drove slow. I sang my favorite songs. I smiled.

After all, he was going to be okay.

When we got to the hospital, I was led into a room. My family was there, surrounding him. But something was off.

There were no machines. No IVs. No doctors.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

The room was silent.

“He died.”

I just stood there. It didn’t register. I didn’t move. Then it hit all at once—grief so loud and sharp it made me want to collapse. I wanted to scream. I wanted to hit something. I wanted to throw up. My dad—the strongest person I knew—was just… gone.

I was supposed to see him that day. It was Father’s Day. I told him I’d be coming home for him. I spoke to him the week before and he told me he’d call me Wednesday. He never did. Did he forget? Did he remember I was coming home?

Why didn’t I just call him myself? I ask myself that question every day.

While he was dying, I was taking pictures of my hotel room.

While he was dead, I was singing in the car.

After what felt like an eternity but barely enough at the same time, the nurse came in and told us it was time to go. I had to say goodbye. I didn’t know what to do. Do I shake his hand like always? Kiss his cheek? Nothing felt right. Nothing about any of it felt real.

Then came the phone calls. I had to tell people. I had to be the one to say the words. I had to stay strong while they cried. I had to reassure them, hug them, tell them it was going to be okay—even when it wasn’t. Even when I didn’t believe it myself.

The day of the wake finally came. I walked up to the casket and didn’t even recognize him. This couldn’t be my father. My father was supposed to be alive. I sat in the front row for two days, never taking my eyes off him. People would try talking to me. I didn’t want to talk. I just wanted to look at him. It was the last time I’d ever see him, and I didn’t want to regret missing a second.

I didn’t cry. Not then. Everyone else did. My sisters. My family. His friends. I wanted to cry. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. I wondered if something was wrong with me. I felt so broken inside, but the tears just wouldn’t come. Maybe I thought I had to be strong. Maybe I just didn’t know how to let go.

At the church, I was first in line to carry the casket. I remember how heavy it felt, even with so many people helping. I remember wondering if he was still inside and wanting to lift it open to check. I remember the tears finally falling as I carried him. I remember how they fell as I realized that this was the last time I would ever hold my father.

My father was everything I aspired to be. He never stopped working, always pushing himself. He could fix anything, figure out anything, make anything work. He would always tell me, “There’s no such thing as problems—only situations. And you can always find a solution to a situation.”

He was the kindest person I knew. He was warm. He made people feel seen. He had that rare ability to walk into a room and make everyone feel like they belonged. He was the first to offer help, to listen, to give advice. And he believed—genuinely believed—that things would always turn out okay, that there was always a light at the end of the tunnel. That man never had a single doubt.

That man was my father.

My friend. My teacher. My foundation.

I love him more than I ever realized. More than I’ll ever be able to say or put into words.

I looked up to him so much. I wanted to be just like him. I would watch the way he would move, the way he would talk—I wanted to follow in his footsteps the best I could. He exuded confidence and radiated fearlessness.

I lost a piece of myself that day that I will never get back—and every day since, I carry the weight of knowing that I will never be whole again.

I miss your laugh. I miss not knowing whether you were going to shake my hand or pull me in for a kiss. I miss the CDs in the car, the “short” errands that turned into entire afternoons. I miss your jokes, your voice, the way you talked about whatever was on your mind.

Thank you for always being there for me. For always being there to talk to. Whether I was upset because I got into a fight with my sisters, or because I was stressed out with work and life itself, you always gave me the best advice. You helped guide me and find the right path to take. You made me into the person I am today.

Thank you for always making time for me. When I needed help with my car, or just wanted to go get breakfast, you always found the time to see me.

I wish I had done the same.

Thank you for being the best father I could have ever asked for. I love you so much, Dad. I love you no matter what, with all my heart, with every fiber and ounce of my being.

I love you.

Until we meet again.