A few weeks ago, I had a vivid dream about my Dad who passed away in 2022. I stayed awake for hours afterwards, questioning what it all meant.
In the dream, Dad refused to help me in a life-or-death situation. This would have been completely out of character for him, obviously.
The dream made me question though whether Dad truly gave me his full attention. Honestly, I don’t think he did, he wasn’t able to.
Finding the words to express my relationship with Dad is difficult but, in a word, I’d say he was disinterested. Like he had one child too many or that he found more joy from my two older sisters. We became increasingly distant as a result.
Growing up, he was largely absent from all the ‘big moments’ and all the sports I was passionate about. I ended up becoming the “third son” of Del and Dave Houlihan, who took me to rugby every Saturday and Sunday with Owen and Austin.
In fact, I had a real talent for sport before my knee fell apart – it was my passion and the perfect outlet for my energy. Yet Dad would say things like, “You’ll never make a career out of sport”. As if that mattered.
Many years later when I asked Mum why Dad was so absent growing up, she said he was just stressed at work. But I don’t think that was it. He was simply old-fashioned – largely leaving the parenting to Mum and parenting based on what he perceived to be right, rather than what was right for me.
As I got older, the disconnect between us grew. He wasn’t curious. He glazed over when I talked. He didn’t ask questions. He didn’t seem interested in who I was becoming.
I often felt he considered me a dreamer, especially when I set up my business in 2001 and moved to Cornwall in 2005. But I wasn’t dreaming – I made it all happen.
When my sons Joseph and Sammy were born, Dad became a proud Grandad. He didn’t engage much – he was more of an armchair Grandad – but they brought him joy and he enjoyed taking them to the golf course at Minchinhampton. He became softer with me then and I stopped seeking his approval.
On the whole, my family struggles to express emotions and sarcasm can often spill into being mean-spirited. I’m different. I’m very compassionate and words matter as a result. Each of us choose our words for poetry or poison. Dad’s words could be cutting.
When I started university, for example, I was buzzing and couldn’t wait to tell Mum and Dad about my new friends and learning to surf. Dad chopped me down in just a few words, “We’re not interested in that…”, he said, “…we want to know about your studies.” It was demeaning and I never forgot that moment.
Maybe his approach to communication was his version of tough love, pushing me to do better. Either way, it didn’t work.
Dad and I loved each other like a father and son should, but we often felt awkward and didn’t know what to say to each other.
Yet with Mum (and one of my sisters too), he was different. He had more to say. He was more relaxed. Happier in their company than in mine.
And Dad treated Mum brilliantly. He was calm, respectful and loving. Family values were very important to him, as they are with me.
It’s probably wrong to be too critical of the past but, looking back, I’d say Dad’s views were shaped more by his orthodox upbringing, and by what he read in the Daily Telegraph or heard on the golf course, than by his personal experiences.
By contrast, I learn by doing. So my perspective on life was always going to be different from his, and I knew I couldn’t change his way of thinking.
Consequently, I’d say that whilst Dad was kind and caring, we never had a meaningful conversation and I struggled to forgive him for that until the end of his life.
On his deathbed, however, we shared a beautiful moment. He confessed that he was very proud of me and couldn’t have wished for a better son. I comforted him.
Those were the words I’d wanted to hear my whole life but I didn’t tell him. I just quietly forgave him and promised to take care of Mum.
24 hours later, he passed away.
Families are complicated. For me, the key lesson has been learning to let go.