Every November 4th, my mom and I blow out candles for someone I’ve never met. 

The kitchen always feels empty when we get the cake out. My mom gets the bright colored candles from the party drawer and sticks them in the cake. Most of the time, it’s cookie cake. 

She lights them, then gets her phone out for a photo. Tears silently streaming down my face, I blow them out. It’s not like a funeral celebration; it’s to keep him living. It’s to keep my dad in my life, even though he’s not. 

My dad passed away from heart complications when I was 1 year, 6 months and 3 days old. Growing up, I knew he was gone; there was never that defining moment where my mom sat me down and told me he passed. I just always knew. For the longest time, I felt like there was a missing piece in my family, like I had to find the last piece in the puzzle. 

I hear stories about him often, like how when my parents found out I was sick (I, too, have heart problems), he flew to Florida. In Florida, he took one small cloth to a prayer convention and had thousands of people pray for my health, safety and well-being. That cloth was then laid above my crib the entire time I was in the NICU.

Growing up, I used his things to remember him. I carried his old phone in my purse and pretended I was a business woman. I played his harmonica, and I would lock myself in the dining room and use his electric drums to create music for hours. 

In the 3rd grade, we had an assignment to bring something food-related that means a lot to your family. I brought my dad’s apron from Hunt Brothers Pizza, a company my grandpa and his brothers founded. When everyone asked what my dad did, I told them, “My dad worked with the company!” I would talk about him like he was here, like he’d come home from work with flour on his clothes every night.

Just before he passed, my dad sold his branch of the company to pay for my medical bills. Now, we rarely drive past gas stations with that bright green and red glowing sign that says my last name. 

Even so, we still blow out candles for him every year.

But 2022 felt different.

My dad’s mom, my grandma, had passed away a few months prior. She lived far, and after my dad passed, we didn’t see her often. The house was full of pictures of my dad and his brothers. There were memories of him in this home, and when we visited, it wasn’t just us and my grandma in the house. So many family members would come, some I don’t think I’ve ever even seen before. But it was people who loved my dad, who truly knew him and had stories to tell. Everyone acted like he was still there, talked about him like it was an old friend that you’ll soon see. 

But I didn’t have that. I didn’t have any stories. I didn’t know him. 

When I was younger, my mom said that I didn’t necessarily not want to learn about him, but when she would talk about my dad, I didn’t ask questions. 

But that’s different now, I wanna learn about him.

I want to know what his dreams were. How did he get to where he was job-wise? How did he raise my half-siblings? What was his family like? What was he like when he was younger? Why did my mom have to lose her person?

I have all sorts of questions. 

Why don’t I have a dad? Why didn’t I get that person, the person who teaches you how to ride a bike? Why do I grieve someone I’ve never fully met?

Today, I feel like I still have things to search for. I still have those pieces of a puzzle to put together, but I don’t feel the guilt for being upset about him. I know I’m allowed to grieve for him because I did lose someone.  

To write this story, my mom took me to the bookshelves in the dining room. Next to his urn lies a bunch of his old everyday things. His phone, his wallet and his bible. In the middle of the bible now lies the prayed-for cloth from the NICU. My mom has kept these things for me, for me to find out who he was on my own. I looked through the notes in his bible, and I looked at his old debit cards in his wallet. My mom and I even joked about charging his phone to see what my dad was up to back then. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but someday,

I’m going to keep searching.