What Fathers Fear

I don’t fear death. Not the quiet. Not the darkness. Not the part where my story ends. What I fear is leaving too soon; before I’ve taught you how to change a tire in the rain, before you’ve stopped needing me to check under the bed, before you know, bone-deep, that you are worthy of good things. I fear missing the ordinary Tuesdays, the scraped knees I won’t be there to bandage, the terrible jokes you’ll tell at my expense when I’m not around to pretend they’re not funny. I fear you’ll forget the sound of my laugh, the way I always burned the pancakes on Sunday mornings, how I stood at every recital, every game, every moment you thought no one was watching; but I was. God, I always was. What terrifies me isn’t the leaving; it’s that you might face the hard days alone, might doubt yourself when life gets heavy, might forget that you carry my strength in your bones, my stubborn hope in your heart. I want to stay for the first apartment, the wedding dance, the moment you hold your own child and finally understand this fierce, impossible love. I want to be the voice that says “you’ve got this” on the days you’re certain you don’t. But if I can’t; if time runs out before I’m ready to let go, know this: I was never afraid of the dark. I was only ever afraid of leaving you before you knew you were your own light all along.