25 Julys without Harrison

It’s been 25 Julys, 25 birthdays, 25 years since my father died.

His name was Harrison—a man of great honor. A man who loved us deeply. A man who would do anything to make us comfortable.

Evenings in our house were full of laughter. My father would sit on his favorite chair and “interview” us, asking what we wanted to be in future. Most of us said doctors—except my elder brother, who insisted on being a police officer. My father would jokingly reject that idea.

“I’ll support any career but not a police officer. He won’t convince me.”

Mama would laugh and say,

“Stop lying. When the time comes, you’ll still support him. You love your children too much.”

Then Dad would shift gears:

“Violet, do you have money for food? Do these children have school bags? Your hair looks old, make it tomorrow, yours and your daughter’s.”

Mama would respond,

“We just went to the salon two weeks ago!”

“Make it again. I want my family to shine.”

He didn’t just provide; he noticed. He gave us attention. He gave us time. He gave us joy.

Bedtime was a tug of war. My younger brother and I always wanted to sleep beside him. We didn’t want to take turns. Sleep was sweeter with him receiving our kicks and tiny blows. All you needed to say was, “Sleep with Daddy,” and we’d jump into bed.

Even at the supermarket, he was the one who handled my tantrums. While my brothers followed Mama, I’d stay behind, crying—not for dolls, but for mannequins. Yes, mannequins. My mother’s sharp eyes would silence me, but Dad couldn’t resist my drama.

When Mama undid my hair, I’d complain that salon visits were painful. She’d call me stubborn. One day, Dad took me himself. I cried before they even touched my head. Halfway through, I smiled and said it wasn’t painful anymore.

“Why were you crying?” he asked.

“I was just crying. Buy me chocolate.”

“I’m done with your salon visits. Your mother will handle your unnecessary crying.”

Years have passed, but the memories haven’t faded.

My mother still teases me about how I blow my nose.

“You hold your handkerchief just like your father.”

She laughs so hard, I pause mid-blow and wait for her to finish. Then she says it again:

“I see Harrison in you. Your father was a good man. I made the right choice marrying him. He didn’t just give you the best he could afford—he gave you himself.”

Even 25 years later, my mother still speaks of him with warmth and pride, as though the love never left.

My father was our best friend.
My father was our support system.
My father was our legacy.

May his soul rest in peace.