His Girl, His World

My dad lived past a hundred, but if you knew him, you’d never guess his age. He didn’t move like an old man, didn’t think like an old man, didn’t talk like an old man. He remembered everything. He walked on his own. He argued, joked, laughed—right until the last week of his life.

He had five boys before me, two alive and he loved them, of course he did, but he always wanted a little girl. Everyone in the family knew it. My mom used to roll her eyes and say, “Lord help us if he gets the daughter he wants. He’s gonna lose his mind.”

And she was right.

Because the day I was born, I became his whole world. I didn’t even understand what that meant until I got older. But I felt it. Every day. He didn’t hide it. Didn’t apologize for it. Didn’t pretend to be fair. He adored me, plain and simple.

And he showed it.

Some parents say “I’ll get it for you” and you know it’s just talk. Not him. If he said he’d get something, he did. Every time.

The red bicycle is the story everyone in my family remembers. I was little—six, maybe seven—and I saw this bright red bike in a store window. I wanted it so bad. I cried the whole way home because the store was closing and I thought that was it. No bike. No chance.

He knelt down, wiped my tears with his thumb, and said,

“Stop crying. Before you wake up tomorrow, your bike will be here.”

I didn’t believe him. I wanted to, but I was a kid and kids think the world ends when the store closes.

But the next morning—before 9 a.m., while I was still in pajamas—that red bike was sitting in the living room, shiny like it had been waiting for me.

I screamed. I jumped on it. I hugged him so tight he laughed.

“How did you get it?” I asked him for years.

He never told me.

He’d just smile and say, “I promised you, didn’t I?”

That was him.

If he loved you, he made things happen.

And it wasn’t just when I was little. He was like that when I grew up too. When I became a teenager. When I became a woman. When I became a mom—three kids of my own running around like tiny tornados. He didn’t fade into the background like some grandparents do. No. He stayed present.

He checked on me every day.

Every. Single. Day.

“Are you okay?”

“You eating?”

“You resting?”

“What’s new with you?”

Even at a hundred years old, he worried more about me than himself.

He always told me the same things, over and over:

“There’s nothing impossible for you.”

“Reach for the star.”

(He always said it wrong. I used to correct him. Now I wouldn’t change it for the world.)

And if I ever said, “What if I fall?”

He’d answer instantly—like he had the line ready for decades:

“I’m right here to catch you.”

My mother would shake her head and say, “You made her stubborn. You spoiled her.”

And he’d just grin, “Good. She gets that from me.”

Then he’d look at me and say, “She can do anything she wants.”

And because of him, I believed it.

That’s what I lost when he died. Not just my father.

I lost the one person who made me feel like the whole world would collapse if anything happened to me.

People say you grow out of needing your parents.

I never did.

Not with him.

Even when he was over a hundred, if he heard my voice on the phone and something sounded wrong, he’d say, “What happened?”

Not “How are you?”

Not “Are you okay?”

Just “What happened?”—because he always knew.

And he wouldn’t hang up until he felt I was steady again.

He was still my safety net, even when he should’ve been the one needing support.

His last week was the first time I saw him slow down. Not lose himself—never that. Just… get tired. Really tired.

He sat in his chair by the window and watched the sky a lot. He’d rub his chest and say, “I’m a little under the weather today.”

And that scared me.

Not the words—just hearing him say them.

This was a man who lived through wars, heartbreaks, raising two boys and one stubborn girl. He didn’t get “under the weather.” He fought the weather.

But now, sitting there, looking out at the gray sky, he seemed… peaceful. Not weak. Not confused. Just a man who had lived a long, full life and was finally getting tired.

I sat next to him, held his hand, leaned my head on his shoulder like I used to.

He said, “You know, I waited my whole life for you.”

I didn’t respond at first because my throat tightened so fast.

He squeezed my hand. “You were everything I ever wanted in a daughter.”

I broke. I didn’t even try to hide it.

He looked at me and said, “You have no idea how proud I am of you. Watching you with your kids… you did good. You did better than good.”

I cried even harder.

His voice got softer. “You’re gonna be okay without me.”

And I said, “No, I’m not.”

He smiled. “Yeah, you are. I made you strong.”

He was right.

But God, I didn’t want him to be.

He passed exactly at 11:59pm

Peaceful. Quiet. No struggle. Like he just finally let himself rest.

When I walked outside afterward , the air felt heavy—still damp from the day before. The kind of night where the world doesn’t quite know what to do with itself.

And I thought about that red bicycle.

About all the times he told me I could do anything.

About how he never let me fall.

About how he made me feel like I was the center of his universe.

And the truth is…

I was.

He made that clear until his very last breath.

I don’t know how to live without someone who loved me that hard. I don’t know how to fill that quiet. I don’t know how to lose the one person who always kept his promise.

But I do know this:

Because of him, I stand strong.

Because of him, I know my worth.

Because of him, I know how to get back up.

Because of him, I know I can handle the days that feel too heavy, too gray—

the days when I’m under the weather.

He made me that way.

His girl.

His daughter.

His whole world.

And I’ll carry him with me forever.