For as long as I have been alive, I have felt that what it meant to live with my dad is what it meant to breathe. My life cannot exist without him, and he keeps me alive. Consequently, I had always imagined that when my dad’s life ended, mine would too. But as my dad took his last breath, mine miraculously kept going. 

The morning of September 6 started extraordinarily dull. I got up — albeit a bit later than I had wanted to — made my breakfast and watched some TV. While I prepared my bagel, I called both my parents as I usually would to check in on them and their walk with our dog, Yoshi. Neither of them answered, but I didn’t think much of it. About 30 minutes later my mom called me to let me know that my dad had died suddenly during their morning coffee run. 

In an instant, the event I feared the most became a reality. I was now living in a world without my dad. 

Not only was my dad a great parent, but he was my best friend in every sense of the term. During my tumultuous teenage years, I spent the majority of my free time at home. When the world seemed disinterested in me, my dad was the one person in this world who seemed to understand who I was. 

Our relationship continued to grow when I moved from outside the GTA to downtown Toronto for university. Every challenge life threw in my direction — whether it was about relationships or school — presented my dad and me with another opportunity for our relationship to grow and evolve. My dad always had an opinion on everything. Even if we disagreed on how to approach a particular obstacle in my life, I knew he supported whatever decision I made. What surpassed his intense conviction on a given topic was his love for me — all he ever wanted was for me to be happy. 

Now that my dad has died, I find myself in the same position he found himself in when he was around my age. His mom died after a brief illness when he was in his early 20s: his life was only beginning and mine hadn’t even started. 

As I stand in my dad’s shoes a generation later, I reflect on the way he chose to live his life following his mom’s death. Not only did my dad choose to pursue a good life, but he cherished every second that he was gifted with. If my dad had given up on life, he would’ve never met me: his “favourite person.” 

Although I can intellectualize and rationalize my dad’s death to the limits of my abilities, I am still left with a profound emptiness as the result of losing a parent that I do not ever see fading. My life’s most joyous moments with my father will now be tinged with bittersweetness. There will be an empty chair at our family Christmas gatherings, a reminder that my best friend is gone and will never come back. Memories of my dad will make me cry because no matter how cheerful they may have been, I know I will never be able to create new memories with him. My dad’s life was stolen from him, and because he is no longer here, the absence of all that we could have shared together will echo through every day. 

Unsurprisingly, the news of my dad’s death elicited many unwelcomed and bewildering responses from those who came to know of it. Some people felt entitled to immediately know his cause of death, while others simply ghosted me when I needed their support the most. The realm of a grieving young adult is one I never thought I’d find myself in. Above all, I’ve noticed a certain standard response to death: a kind of distant, impersonal pity directed at the family left behind. 

Understandably, the spotlight rests on my family — others direct their sorrow toward us rather than the person who actually lost his life. In the hours following my dad’s death, I realized that this tragedy didn’t happen to my mom, my brother, our dog, or me. Death happened to Marino Cherubin. While I recognize that my family’s grief is valid and justifiable, we are secondary to his death. Our mourning matters, but I feel that the bulk of others’ sadness should be directed toward my dad, honouring his life above all. 

My family gets to live with the anguish of his loss, whereas my dad does not get to live with anything — he is dead. So now, the question is, what do I do with the life he gave me? What do I do without my favourite person? 

When I reflect on the years we shared, I find solace in knowing that I will never live with the burden of not having said how I truly felt about him. My dad made sure to tell me every day of my life that he loved me, creating an environment where I felt comfortable doing the same. I can say with great confidence that my dad died knowing that he was the centre of my universe. 

Although my dad’s death was unexpected and unfathomable, I feel that he prepared me for this moment. My dad raised me to be capable enough to live in a world without him. It is because of my dad that I will be able to continue living. 

The cycle of untimely death seems to have begun again. My dad lived more of his life without his mom than with her and now the same fate has been handed to me. Not only do I want to continue living, but I have never felt such a desire to do so as I do now. 

For the first time in my life, I don’t want to survive merely; I want to live truly. So, I have come to welcome the pain that has come with my dad’s death — it exists solely as a testament to the depth of the love that we shared. I welcome all the hardship that lies ahead because that is what it means to live, and I’m finally ready to begin.