In My Dream House

By Billie Bakhshi

Dear Dad,

In my dream house, you are there.

You were there all along. Always.

You carried me on your shoulders and taught me how to ride a bike, how to swim, how to fish. You told bedtime stories and silly dad jokes to make me laugh.

You let me hand you tools when you fixed the car. You took my teeth from under my pillow when you thought I was sleeping and replaced them with crisp dollar bills.

You smiled, standing there in your best suit as I came down the stairs in my fancy dress and Mary Janes, ready for my first father-daughter dance at school.

I made you pictures that you hung on the wall at your office and bought you ties for Father’s Day.

I made your coffee just the way you like on Sunday mornings and brought you iced tea when you mowed the lawn. We watched old movies and munched popcorn.

You helped me with my math homework and comforted me when my first crush broke my heart. We went out for ice cream. You taught me how to drive a stick shift.

You cheered at my graduations and teared up as you walked me down the aisle on my wedding day. We danced to “Daddy’s Little Girl” at the reception.

When I found out I was pregnant, you were thrilled. You helped my husband paint the baby’s room and put the crib together. You paced the hallway when I was in labor and you were the first person in the room to kiss your grandchild.

You came over so I could take a shower since the baby kept me up all night. I found you, with your first granddaughter nuzzled up on your chest, both of you sound asleep on the sofa.

You were there for every holiday. Every birthday. Every grandparents day at school, choral concert, dance recital.

You made us feel loved.

When you got sick, I was there. I held your hand.

I made meals. Cleaned up. Went with you to doctors appointments. Sat in waiting rooms while you had radiation. Gave you popsicles and angel mints during chemo.

I sat by your bedside and told you I love you. I kissed you on the forehead, and covered you in quilts. I was there when you breathed your last. You weren’t alone in the ER, because you were my dad, and I was your daughter. You knew you were loved. You knew you were the best dad, the best granddad.

But I don’t live in my dream house.

You didn’t either.

We never got to experience those things I dreamed of. Not even a phone call to say goodbye. And I don’t know what hurts more—not having those experiences or having to face that there will never be any experiences, ever, because you’re gone now. We ran out of time. I was alone then and I’m alone now.

And this will just be one last letter I’ll have sent that will never get a reply.

Billie

Billie Bakhshi is now a fatherless daughter, a second generation NPE whose maternal grandmother was illegally adopted. Her mother was impounded at Booth Maternity Home for Unwed Mothers in Philadelphia, where Bakhshi’s sister, Donna was given up for adoption through Catholic Charities. Bakhshi has half a dozen (maybe more) half siblings from her father. Where are they all? She’d love to know, too. Bakhshi lives in Las Vegas, Nevada with her husband, four children, a cockatoo, tuxedo cat, and neurotic chihuahua mix. You can follow her on Facebook and her writing at The Family Caretaker. See her previous essay here.

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