When My Dead Father Visited Me
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They say that sometimes, the departed return. Not with noise or fanfare—but softly, in the quiet folds of sleep, when our conscious mind finally loosens its grip. I believe this now, because it happened to me. My father, who passed away when I was very young, came to visit me many years later.
I don’t have many memories of him. In fact, only two. Some say it’s not possible to remember anything before the age of three—but when those are the only moments you have with a parent, the mind holds on. Mine did.
One memory is harsh. I was fussing like any restless toddler might in the backseat of our car. He turned to me, his face dark with anger, and threatened to burn me with the cigarette lighter if I didn’t quiet down. I didn’t fully understand the threat at the time, but I knew enough to be afraid.
The other memory is peaceful. We were walking back from a neighbor’s house. A simple errand. I remember sitting on a curb with him, eucalyptus leaves overhead the scent very distinct and soothing, seeds scattered on the pavement like tiny offerings. I see now, in retrospect, that we likely sat because he needed to catch his breath. Not long after, he died of cancer—something misdiagnosed as a persistent flu.
I often wonder what my life would have been like had he lived. He was a strict man, and I was the sensitive one in the family—the emotional child, the black sheep. In time, people came to see me as calm and mild-mannered, but inside I was always turbulent, always unsure. Emotional in nature and insecure by rearing, I was aware that I must wait for life to teach me things so I could become at peace with wisdom.
If my father had lived, perhaps I would have become a more disciplined person. Perhaps I would have learned structure, the kind that can anchor a child. But I also imagine I would have grown up with resentment. I might have been a dutiful son on the outside yet silently harbored doubt and shame.
Instead, my mother raised five of us alone. She did her best, but love was often measured in survival, not softness. I lacked the guidance I needed—not just rules, but the kind of affection that builds self-worth.
Years passed. I got married. I remained emotionally unsteady, still searching for a sense of wholeness. And then, on a vacation with my wife, I had a dream—or something more than a dream.
In my sleep, my father appeared. His face hovered close to mine—startlingly close. I recognized him instantly, though I hadn’t thought of him in a long time. I even spoke aloud in the dream to someone unseen: “Oh, there’s my father.”
And at that moment, his face changed. His expression twisted in anger. He leaned in until our faces merged, and he said, with intensity, “You have to grow up.”
I woke shaken. Not just from the dream itself, but from the power of those words. You have to grow up. It felt like more than a message, it felt like a directive. A soul reaching across time to say something vital.
Nine months later, my son was born—a conception by the spirits, perhaps. And for the first time, I felt like a man. But becoming a man doesn’t mean you’ve grown. That journey was only beginning. Over the next two decades, I would come to understand that growing up isn’t an idea you can simply choose, it’s a process that requires failure, pain, and the slow unwinding of who you were told to be.
The dream—if that’s what it stayed with me. The message was simple, but the meaning kept deepening. Maybe spirits do visit us, and maybe they’re not perfect. I used to believe that the dead became serene, wise, removed from human emotion. But in that moment, my father was angry—just as he had been in life. Maybe, even in death, he hadn’t changed. Or maybe, anger was the only language he knew to reach me.
I’ve allowed myself room to question it, of course. But still, I believe. I believe that our loved ones, even when imperfect, can find a way to guide us in our paths. And I believe that sometimes, growing up doesn’t begin with peace—but with a jolt, confrontation, a face in the dark whispering what you already knew but hadn’t yet lived.
I don’t know if the visit accomplished what it had intended. I do choose to believe that there is life after death, and it was a privilege that few experience—to have a deceased parent come visit with a message from the grave.
