Same pain, different perspectives

I adore my mum, I always have. She's been through horrific things I can't even imagine and she's come out the other side with a determination to learn from every shred of pain. However, from day one, my dad was my favourite. My older brother would come home, sit and do his homework as my mum made dinner. I would be upstairs, probably doing something I would later get into some trouble for. When my dad walked through the front door, my evening began. I would greet him with a big hug, ask him how his day went; 'Alright - let me get through the door!' He would laugh. 

 I've always run on emotion, especially when I was younger. So when my older brother and I argued, I was a handful. Whereas my brother knew if he was calm, he would seem reasonable, I was four years younger and 'reasonable' wasn't in my armoury. It didn't seem to matter who caused the argument, I would be the one on the end of my mum's wrath. At least, that's how I saw it. So, my dad was my guy. He seemed to understand me where my mum, in my eyes, didn't even try. Of course, this wasn't the case. It's a story that's probably familiar with a lot of people and, in retrospect, I had no idea that that is what made my parents such a strong team. They would have sat up at night and talked about us, worked out how to keep us happy and safe and sacrificed themselves - my brother and my father had the same moments of disconnect that I had with my mum - now I know that this is what it takes sometimes to raise children in a marriage. 

Because, despite navigating these family traits,  the four of us together were a strong, happy team. I never looked at friends situations and thought I was missing out on anything. We had holidays, parties, brilliant Christmases and more laughs than I can remember. My childhood was absolutely immense and I wouldn't trade it for anything. 

 Then, my dad died suddenly when I was fifteen years old and the world I knew burst into nothing. 

 The natural reaction when the rug is pulled out from under your life is to react to moments; I didn't really think beyond the feeling I was having at any given time. Whether that was anger, total disbelief, utter devastation or uncontrollable fits of laughter - whatever hit me, I just let it come and felt every last bit of it. But beyond making sure my mum was alright, I didn't do much thinking. Had I done, I might have thought a little bit more about how my brother's experience to everything was completely different to my own. Life-changing in a completely different way. 

 My brother and my dad didn't dislike each other, they just didn't get along most of the time. The old adage of being 'too similar' didn't seem like a fit back then, but seeing my brother develop into a brilliant father, the image of our dad, makes me realise that it was totally apt. At nineteen, my brother was living at home whilst going to university. Like most people that age, he was stuck somewhere between desperately longing to break free from under his parents attempts to maintain some kind of control over him - whilst still enjoying the comforts of being looked after and not paying bills. My dad didn't know how to process this, he seemed to find it ungrateful. He wanted something more from my brother that, at his age, in his stage of life, he wasn't able to give. On the flipside, I was still a chatty, affable, helpful fifteen year-old. My brother had become thoughtful and quiet. He did his talking on the athletics field or in the exam hall and didn't outwardly accept advice. My dad didn't take these changes well. 

 So they clashed. Often with my mum caught in the middle; if not initially, then she would try to place herself there to stop things escalating. My dad stopped going to watch my brother play sports, my brother stopped communicating with my dad - both knowing that this was the best way to hurt the other. 

 Then, dad was gone and I was so busy wrapped in the moments and emotions I found myself in, I didn't think too much about how my brother felt. He was engaged two weeks after my dad's passing and married a year later, in the same church we'd had the funeral in. It was a blur, life had moved on so rapidly, I thought it was because he was okay. He wasn't, I know that now.  He and my dad never got to live apart, to learn to respect their differences and find joy in their similarities. They never went to the pub, just the two of them, to talk about getting married, starting your first job or having kids. They were both so busy standing their ground and probably thought they had time. I can imagine my mum telling my dad 'not to push it, he'll come around.' I can hear her telling my brother, 'maybe ask your dad for help with that?' But they never got the opportunity to miss each other until it was too late. 

 Years later, we were playing a game on a car journey with my nephew and he asked, 'if you could go back to any time and tell someone something, where would you go?' My brother sat quietly as other people took their turns, eventually he said, 'August 19, 1992 - I'd tell him not to get in the car.'

 I don't think my dad ever told my brother he was proud of him - and I don't think my brother ever got the chance to tell my dad that he was his hero. But he was. I know that now. Because I can see it every time I see him on the sidelines when my nephew is playing football. I see my dad.