Growing Up Without Dad
My dad died when I was 9. For most of my life, I would have denied that his death had any real impact on my development.
After all, I was a fiercely self-sufficient young boy with a strong sense of awareness at a very young age. On the day my dad died, I mentally took on the role of “oldest male” in the house and never really saw his death as a negative. I suppose that’s strange, but I’ve always been the type who rises to meet adversity.
Of course, there was a touch of silliness to it. I didn’t get a job as my grandfather did when his dad died. I didn’t take over the role of raising my brother. And in actuality, I didn’t know squat.
But, I did grow up a lot on the day my dad died from an embolism caused by a metal plate used to mend a broken leg. My sense of responsibility was immediate and immutable. In many ways, I acted as adult-like as my immature mind could muster.
It wasn’t until my kids were born that I started to realize something had been lost. Consider:


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