My father died last week, and with his passing, I officially joined the orphan club. I lost my mother twelve years ago, and surviving that grief nearly broke me. I still struggle with her absence, but I find comfort in my memories of her. She was singular—full of personality, warmth, and quiet beauty. She endured more than any one person should have to, yet somehow still managed to raise six children with strength and integrity. That was her gift to us.
My father’s death feels entirely different.
Our relationship was turbulent and painful. He was a cruel man who lived the life of a thug—a soldier in a known mafia family. When we were young, he provided well. We had everything money could buy. But I know now the cost of that lifestyle far outweighed any comfort it brought. No amount of money is worth what we paid.
He was often a tyrant. Alcohol, drugs, and mental illness formed a volatile mix, one that could turn catastrophic without warning. He wasn’t just loud or threatening—he had both bark and bite. My mother bore the brunt of his violence, physical and verbal, though we children were not spared. He robbed us of hope, of possibility, convincing us we were only capable of surviving, not becoming. He made us feel small, unworthy of dreams beyond the narrow life he imagined for us.
It feels strange to lose a parent and not mourn them. I don’t feel grief so much as release. Outliving him was, quite literally, on my bucket list.
This doesn’t make me cold. I am warm and loving with the people in my life. I lead with kindness, even with strangers. I am deeply grateful every day that I had the mother I did. And now, for the first time, I get to experience life without my father’s shadow.
Not every death brings sorrow, and not every goodbye is painful—but each one invites us to reckon with the truth of the life that came before it.
The Gentle Rant 
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