Yesterday I had a very long phone call with my mom to commemorate my dad’s passing. On this day, four years ago, he died peacefully in hospice, six months after being diagnosed with brain cancer.

Every year we get on a call, every year we both open a bottle of Riesling (his favourite wine), light some candles instead of the chimney (because there are plants in there. Also, it’s July!), and remember him.

The stories we leave behind are our most important legacy. And once we can’t contest those stories anymore, they become lore. I can say “my dad used to say” without him correcting me, co-opting his wisdom for myself, bending it JUST enough so he can endorse me.

And he would endorse me, though not necessarily all of my choices.

You see, I grew up in a VERY Christian household. My dad was an Elder (for the uninitiated, that’s like the Board of Directors, but for Churches), the Congregation was our community - and I did not fit the expectations of that community. I left the Church before I left home, and though not thrilled with the decision, my parents never made me feel bad. Though I had to get up for breakfast on Sunday even if I stayed home.

And here’s the lesson I remember when, yet again, my dad and I were at odds on some values. He told me that he did not agree with my decisions, but (and I want to highlight this for all hardcore Christians out there) it was not his role to judge me. That privilege belongs to the Lord. As my father, his role in life is to support me. And on judgement day I can take it up with the Heavenly Father and defend my choices.

My evangelical father was absolutely fine to share his Riesling with his twice-divorced, single-mom, relationship anarchy daughter. He didn’t judge even if he didn’t understand.

And also, we tacitly decided not to fight over certain topics we both knew we would never agree on. And it’s those topics that now make me remember him the most.

It has been four years. I used to see my dad four to five times a year. We lived in different countries after all. That means that my day-to-day is relatively shielded from clear memories. And ever since my mom moved away from their village, even summer holidays don’t wake the same ache.

Instead, I remember my dad every time someone passionately discusses the topics we did not agree on. There are certain songs in my Tidal (my chosen alternative to Spotify) account which I might skip (or not) because they hit too close to home on some days (Verdammt ich lieb dich), and they are EXACTLY what I need to hear on other days.

You can’t always control context, but you can definitely use triggers for your benefit.

I am my dad’s princess. I am the eldest, his only daughter, and I know from my mom and friends that he was super proud of me. That’s because he told them, not me. He was pragmatic to a fault (sounds familiar?), and not super emotional. His way of showing me that he cared was lots of support with the kids, taking care of them for entire summers while I worked, and offering me Riesling at night so we could sit on the sofa together and read our books.

So obviously I found a therapist once he passed so I could, pragmatically, get to grips with grief (shoutout to Therapy in Barcelona who specialise in therapists who understand what it means to be in a different country). My grief therapist told me to schedule grief time to get through the first six months, and to really make that time count.

So every Thursday, at 3:30 pm, an hour before leaving for school pickup, I’d put on my trigger playlist and cry. I’d look at that picture of us wearing those shades of tourquoise that make our eyes pop, because we have the same eyes. And with time, I could “appreciate” the songs as a memory, and the picture now hangs on my wall, together with those other family memories that remind me that I am weird, but there’s balance to my particular kind of madness.

The mountain of grief has worn down to a little pebble. A pebble I carry in my pocket, and twice a year, on my dad’s birthday and on his deathday (conveniently in November - so it’s well spaced over the year), I take out the pebble, I light the candles, I put on the playlist, I call my mom or one of my brothers to share stories, and we pour ourselves a glass of Riesling over the distance, and I toast to life.

And to all the memories, and the lessons that my stubborn, religious, generous, non-judgemental, caring stay-at-home dad left his stubborn, ambitious, driven, non-conforming, loving daughter.

Danke, Papa. I miss you!