For My Father, From His First Son

I wish we had more time

I wrote Parenting at 21 and unintentionally opened a can of memories. What was supposed to be a letter about a conversation with my sister quickly became a path leading to a series of realizations. Don’t get me wrong—I’ve always known the extent of my upbringing’s influence on me, but until now, I had never sat down to truly unpack the parts of my life that were affected.

I am writing this letter so soon after the last one for two reasons. First, I realize my writing side is far stronger than I thought, straining under the weight of the years I’ve pushed it down. Second, like all my other gifts, I must choose to consistently engage with it. Yes, I write from within me, but I write for you. So, with a sense of urgency, I am deciding to dedicate my time and sit at my table, turning out these parts of me that will only find expression through the relationship between my fingers and this keypad. The truth is, I am looking for myself, but I hope that as you follow my thoughts, you will find you, too.

In my last letter, I wrote as a man getting closer to the age where he would stand in the same spot his father once stood. I wrote as a man who had identified certain flaws in the systems that shaped him and as one who hopes to do better. What I did not do was dig deeper into that story. So here I am again, attempting to do so. In this letter, I want to delve into the beautiful relationship between my father and me.

It is often said that our generation is quick to blame those before us, rarely acknowledging the places they got it right. That will not be the case today. Today, I am writing a letter to my father.

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Dear Father,

Four years have passed since I last saw your smile. And even though I rarely saw it when you had breath in your lungs, those moments remain the ones I remember most. Our relationship wasn’t extraordinary by the standards of your time, but I will not deny that I am grateful for the way you raised me.

You were a scholar and a disciplinarian. Writing you a letter feels natural because, as a young teenager in boarding school, you always made me write notes to you—updates on school, explanations of how my upkeep provisions had finished. You would correct my handwriting and tenses. Even though you weren’t the kind of father who sat with me to do assignments, your attention in those moments made me feel seen. Nostalgia is a liar, trying to montage my truth, but I choose to remember our good times—the way you proudly carried me around, saying, That’s my first son; he just gained admission to university! Or when you would call out, Bright, come here! You’re the one that knows how to do it.

Four years later, and for the first time, I dare to pen my thoughts about you.

I am picturing this as a face-to-face conversation, struggling to find the words because we didn’t always see eye-to-eye. Maybe you saw me as a child who constantly made mistakes you weren’t proud of. If this were face to face, I would have tears running down my cheeks because there is so much I want to say about how much impact you have had on my life. Regardless, I will take the time to talk about one thing with you.

I wish we had more time. And I think we both share that regret. You accepted, just months before you died, that I would turn out better than you had hoped. I realized a bit too late that you loved me in your own way. And now, I wish I had loved your presence instead of always running away in fear. They say grief gets better with time, but each passing year deepens the space you left. I sincerely wonder how you did it.

When you passed, Rhema got admission to study pharmacy but couldn’t go because, where would a 21-year-old who had just buried his father, with little to no help from family, get the finances to send someone else to school? It’s 2025 now, and I am proud to say he is preparing for his second professional exams in medical school.

Emmanuel—the one you called The Blessed One—struggled after you died. He lost his sense of direction. It didn’t seem like it then, but I now realize your absence took him off course. It took time, but I look at him now, and I know he will be a great man. He finished school and is now learning what actual responsibility is.

Doxa and Hephzibah are still inseparable. I admit, they scare me the most—maybe because I see myself in them, and I don’t want them to make the same mistakes I have. While I am trying my best to be both a father and a brother to them, I also don’t want them to fear me the way I feared you. So, how do I become their friend at the same time? You probably should have taught me that before you left. But I will keep trying my best—with the help of the Holy Spirit.

I am saving this paragraph for your wife. She doesn’t talk about it, and that makes it hard to be there for her. She’s been strong—very strong. She put her grief in the backseat and prioritized us. She still woke up to make food for us, still made sure we had what we needed. For a woman with her qualifications, one of the greatest proofs of love I have ever seen is how she laid her life down to ensure we grew. In her words, I see myself living through you all, so all I would have been, I am more than happy to see you become.

This morning, she sent a message: Today is the day, but be strong. God is still God. Hmmm… We will continually thank Him for His faithfulness. And I sincerely agree with her. None of this would have been possible without His mercy and providence.

Should I write about myself? How, every time I look back, I wish you were here? We didn’t have much, but you gave me the most important thing in my life today—God and His word. For a kid who once borrowed clothes from friends and hung around others just to eat, seeing that I have grown to a place where I can afford my own home, take care of myself, and even help others outside the family is a deeply humbling realization.

I catch flights now—lol. People look up to me. Some even think I am rich because of my sense of style. But oh, if they knew that not too long ago, I really had nothing at all, maybe they’d understand it wasn’t always rosy.

I am considering going back to school for a PhD. I never tell people the real reason when they ask why, but the truth is—I want to do it in your name. You never got the chance to chase that dream, and I want that for myself. I may never really use the certificates, and I know they won’t matter after I die, but I hope I see it through.

Four years now. And every 3rd of April is heavy. I took so many pictures of you, but I never posed for one with you. This year, that breaks my heart the most. My obsession with documenting life now? It’s because your death made me realize that time is the one thing we won’t have forever.

Please, shine your blessings from above. Keep directing me. It will take a miracle to continue the work you left behind.

I love you today and always, sir.

I will end this letter now. Close your eyes and rest, knowing I now chase the monsters away. You will always be remembered.

With love,

Bright Charles