I think my dad got away with murder
“I got away with murder.”
That’s what my dad used to say.
He never explained what he meant.
And I never asked.
On the contrary, he was a family man.
The sole provider.
Held a demanding job.
Still served as a committee member in his radio control model plane club.
And somehow, he always had time for us.
He was tired. But he still showed up.
Even when I wanted to go to my favourite bookstore, and he had just come home tired from work, he would still take me.
Because he knew I had been waiting all day for him.
That was just who he was.
“We must find a way.”
There was another thing he used to say.
Whenever I ran into a problem, that was his response. Not whether it was possible. Not whether it was convenient.
Just,
we must find a way.
The promise he made (and kept)
After he had a stroke that left him unable to walk, he told my son, who was only one at the time:
“I will walk again one day, so I can carry you.”
He said it so simply. Like it was already decided.
And he did.
But it wasn’t easy
The recovery wasn’t smooth.
There were periods where he was depressed. He didn’t want to eat. Didn’t want to do anything.
But even then, he found his way back. He never wallowed in self-pity. If anything, he was more frustrated that he wasn’t progressing fast enough.
So what did he mean?
“I got away with murder.”
I still don’t fully understand it.
But over time, I started to piece things together.
Maybe it was how he “stole” time away from work. Or how he did less than what he thought was expected of him. And yet, he still rose.
He held a leadership position. Worked closely as a deputy to the top man in the company, even though he came from facilities, not the obvious path.
The Managing Director clearly saw something in him.
He made a good living. He provided for us. And somehow, he still had time.
Time for family.
Time for the things he enjoyed.
Time for people.
And yet… there was something else
There were things he said that stayed with me.
He once told me he might have given up on things too soon. That he felt bad for not helping a colleague who came to him.
It didn’t sound like pride. It sounded like regret.
Like he felt he could have done more.
From the outside, he had everything
A good job.
A stable income.
A family who loved him.
A full life.
Somehow, he made it all work.
And maybe, to him, it felt like he got away with something.
When he passed
People showed up.
In droves.
One of his friends came despite having terminal stage cancer, with an IV drip, and wept.
Another said, “I’m so glad I brought him his favourite dessert that day,” just weeks before he passed.
We honoured him anyway
Even though my dad had told us:
“Don’t waste money.
Just put me in a plywood box and burn me.
If they didn’t make time to see me when I was alive,
I don’t need them to come see me when I’m dead.”
We still gave him a proper send-off.
The elegant coffin.
The Mercedes Benz hearse.
The grand room for the wake.
It wasn’t for him. It was for us.
To honour the man who had spent his whole life showing up for others, and somehow, still enjoying his own life along the way.
Now, I understand this differently
Building my business alongside a job and a family, being the primary provider, there are days it feels like too much.
Days where I question if I can keep going. Days where I just want to stop.
But then I think about him
How he carried so much, and still found time.
Still found joy.
Still found a way.
Maybe this is what he meant
I don’t think he really “got away with murder.”
I think he made choices.
Quiet ones.
Intentional ones.
Ones that didn’t always follow what was expected.
He didn’t give everything to work. He didn’t wait for perfect conditions. He found a way to make space for what mattered.
And maybe that’s the real lesson
Because for people like us, there isn’t always a perfect path.
There’s just the decision to keep going. To keep figuring it out. To keep making it work.
“We must find a way.”
And so I will.